LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


TWENTY  YEARS  AGO, 


AND    NOW. 


BY    T.    S.    ARTHUR. 


PHILADELPHIA  : 
G.    G.    EVANS,    PUBLISHER, 

No.    439    CHESTNUT    STREET. 
1860. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1860,  by 
T.    S.    ARTHUR, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District  of 
Pennsylvania. 


PREFACE. 


WE  point  to  two  ways  in  life,  and  if  the  young  man 
and  maiden,  whose  feet  are  lingering  in  soft  green 
meadows  and  flowery  walks,  will  consider  these  two 
ways  in  sober  earnest,  before  moving  onward,  and 
choose  the  one  that  truth  and  reason  tell  them  leads 
to  honor,  success,  and  happiness,  our  book  will  accom 
plish  its  right  work  for  them.  It  is  a  sad  thing,  after 
the  lapse  of  twenty  years,  to  find  ourselves  amid 
ruined  hopes  ; — to  sit  down  with  folded  hands  and  say, 
"  Thus  far  life  has  been  a  failure !"  Yet,  to  how 
many  is  this  the  wretched  summing  up  at  the  end  of  a 
single  score  of  years  from  the  time  that  reason  takes 
the  helm  !  Alas  !  that  so  few,  who  start  wrong,  ever 
succeed  in  finding  the  right  way;  life  proving,  even  to 
its  last  burdened  years,  a  miserable  failure ! 


TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,  AND  NOW. 


CHAPTER   I. 

*  THE  rain  had  poured  in  torrents  all  day,  and  now, 
for  the  third  time  since  morning,  I  came  home,  wet, 
uncomfortable  and  weary.  I  half  dreaded  to  look  at 
the  slate,  lest  some  urgent  call  should  stare  me  in  the 
face. 

"  It  must  indeed  be  a  case  of  life  and  death,  that 
takes  me  out  again  to-night,"  said  I,  as  my  good  wife 
met  me  in  the  entry,  and  with  light  hands,  made  active 
by  love,  assisted  in  the  removal  of  my  great  coat  and 
comforter. 

"Now  come  into  the  sitting-room,"  she  said,  "your 
slippers  are  on  the  rug,  and  your  dressing-gown  warmed 
and  waiting.  Tea  is  ready,  and  will  be  on  the  table 
by  the  time  you  feel  a  little  comfortable.  What  a 
dreadful  day  it  has  been!" 

"Dreadful  for  those  who  have  been  compelled  to 
face  the  storm,"  I  remarked,  as  I  drew  off  my  boots, 
and  proceeded  to  take  advantage  of  all  the  pleasant 


6  TWENTY  TEARS  AGO,  AND   NOW. 

arrangements  my  thoughtful  wife  had  ready  for  my 
solace  and  delight. 

It  was  on  my  lip  to  inquire  if  any  one  had  called 
since  I  went  out,  but  the  ringing  of  the  tea-bell  sent 
my  thought  in  a  new  direction ;  when,  with  my  second 
self  leaning  on  an  arm,  and  my  little  Aggy  holding 
tightly  by  my  hand,  I  moved  on  to  the  dining-room, 
all  the  disagreeable  things  of  the  day  forgotten. 

"Has  any  one  been  here  ?"  I  asked,  as  I  handed 
my  cup  for  a  third  replenishing.  Professional  habit 
was  too  strong — the  query  would  intrude  itself. 

"Mrs.  Wallingford  called  to  see  you." 

"Ah!     Is  anybody  sick?" 

"  I  believe  so — but  she  evaded  my  inquiry,  and  said 
that  she  wished  to  speak  a  word  with  the  Doctor." 

"She  don't  want  me  to  call  over  to-night,  I  hope. 
Did  she  leave  any  word?" 

"  No.    She  looked  troubled  in  her  mind,  I  thought." 

"No  other  call?" 

"  Yes.  Mary  Jones  sent  word  that  something  was 
the  matter  with  the  baby.  It  cried  nearly  all  last 
night,  her  little  boy  said,  and  to-day  has  fever,  and 
lies  in  a  kind  of  stupor." 

"  That  case  must  be  seen  to,"  I  remarked,  speak 
ing  to  myself. 

"  You  might  let  it  go  over  until  morning,"  suggested 
my  wife.  "  At  any  rate,  I  would  let  them  send  again 
before  going.  The  child  may  be  better  by  this  time." 

"A  call  in  time  may  save  life  here,  Constance,"  I 
made  answer ;  the  sense  of  duty  growing  stronger  as 
the  inner  and  outer  man  felt  the  renovating  effects  of 


STERN   COMMANDS   OF   DUTY.  7 

a  good  supper,  and  the  brightness  and  warmth  of  my 
pleasant  home.  "  And  life,  you  know,  is  a  precious 
thing — even  a  baby's  life." 

And  I  turned  a  meaning  glance  upon  the  calm, 
sweet  face  of  our  latest  born,  as  she  lay  sleeping  in 
her  cradle.  That  was  enough.  I  saw  the  tears  spring 
instantly  to  the  eyes  of  my  wife. 

"  I  have  not  a  word  to  say.  God  forbid,  that  in  the 
weakness  of  love  and  care  for  you,  dear  husband,  I 
should  draw  you  aside  from  duty.  Yes — yes  !  The 
life  of  a  baby  is  indeed  a  precious  thing  !" 

And  bending  over  the  cradle,  she  left  a  kiss  on  the 
lips,  and  a  tear  on  the  pure  brow  of  our  darling.  Now 
was  I  doubly  strengthened  for  the  night.  There  arose 
at  this  instant  a  wild  storm-wail,  that  shrieked  for  a 
brief  time  amid  the  chimneys,  and  around  the  eaves  of 
our  dwelling,  and  then  went  moaning  away,  sadly,  dy 
ing  at  last  in  the  far  distance.  The  rain  beat  heavily 
against  the  windows.  But  I  did  not  waver,  nor  seek 
for  reasons  to  warrant  a  neglect  of  duty.  "  I  must 
see  Mary  Jones's  baby,  and  that  to-night."  I  said  this 
to  myself,  resolutely,  by  way  of  answer  to  the  intimi 
dating  storm. 

Mrs.  Jones  was  a  widow,  and  poor.  She  lived  full 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  So  in  deciding  to  make 
the  visit  that  night,  I  hardly  think  a  very  strong 
element  of  self-interest  was  included  in  the  motives 
that  governed  me.  But  that  is  irrelevant. 

"As  there  is  no  prospect  of  an  abatement  in  the 
storm,"  said  I,  after  returning  to  our  cosy  little  sit* 
ting-room,  "  it  may  be  as  well  for  me  to  see  the  baby 


8  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND   NOW. 

at  once.  The  visit  will  be  over,  so  far  as  I  am  con 
cerned,  and  precious  time  may  be  gained  for  the  pa 
tient." 

"  I  will  tell  Joseph  to  bring  around  the  horse,"  said 

Tny  wife. 

«No I  wiH  walk.     Poor  beast!     He  has   done 

enough  for  one  day,  and  shall  not  be  taken  out  again," 

"  Horse-flesh  is  not  so  precious  as  man-flesh,"  Con 
stance  smiled  entreatingly,  as  she  laid  her  hand  upon 
my  shoulder.  "  Let  Tom  be  harnessed  up  ;  it  won't 
hurt  him." 

"  The  merciful  man  is  merciful  to  his  beast,"  I  made 
answer.  "  If  horse-flesh  is  cheaper  than  man-flesh, 
like  most  cheap  articles,  it  is  less  enduring.  Tom  must 
rest,  if  his  master  cannot." 

"  The  decision  is  final,  I  suppose." 

"  I  must  say  yes." 

"  I  hardly  think  your  great  coat  is  dry  yet,"  said 
my  wife.  "  I  had  it  hung  before  the  kitchen  fire.  Let 
me  see." 

"  You  must  wait  for  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  longer," 
she  remarked,  on  returning  from  the  kitchen.  "  One 
sleeve  was  completely  wetted  through,  and  I  have 
turned  it  in  order  to  get  the  lining  dry." 

I  sat  down  and  took  Agnes  on  my  lap,  and  was  just 
getting  into  a  pleasant  talk  with  her,  when  the  door 
bell  rung.  A  shadow  fell  across  my  wife's  face. 

"People  are  thoughtless  of  Doctors,"  she  remarked, 
a  little  fretfully,  "  and  often  choose  the  worst  weather 
and  the  most  untimely  seasons  to  send  for  them." 

I  did  not  answer,  but  listened  as  the  boy  went  to 


MRS.  WALLINGFORD.  9 

the  door.  Some  one  was  admitted,  and  shown  into 
the  office. 

"Who  is  it?"  I  enquired,  as  Joseph  came  to  the 
sitting-room. 

"Mrs.  Wallingford." 

My  wife  and  I  exchanged  glances.  She  looking 
grave  and  curious ;  hut  no  remark  was  made. 

"  Good-evening,  Mrs.  Wallingford,"  said  I,  on  enter 
ing  rny  office.  "  This  is  a  very  bad  night  for  a  lady 
to  come  out.  I  hope  no  one  is  seriously  ill." 

"  I  wish  you  would  come  over  and  see  our  Henry, 
Doctor." 

There  was  a  choking  tremor  in  her  voice  ;  and  as  I 
looked  in  her  face,  I  saw  that  it  was  pale  and  dis 
tressed. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  inquired. 

"I  can't  say  what  it  is,  Doctor.  Something's 
wrong.  I'm  afraid — yes,  I'm  afraid  he's  going  out  of 
his  senses." 

And  she  wrung  her  hands  together  with  a  nervous 
uneasiness  in  singular  contrast  with  her  usual  quiet 
exterior. 

"  How  is  he  affected  ?" 

"  Well,  Doctor,  he  came  home  last  evening  looking 
as  white  as  a  sheet.  I  almost  screamed  out  when  I 
saw  the  strange,  suffering  expression  on  his  colorless 
face.  My  first  thought  was  that  he  had  fallen  some 
where,  and  been  hurt  dreadfully.  He  tried  to  pass 
me  without  stopping ;  but  I  put  both  hands  on  him, 
and  said — *  Oh,  Henry  !  what  does  ail  you  ?'  '  Nothing 
of  any  account,'  he  answered,  in  a  low,  husky  tone. 


10  TWENTY   YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

'  I  don't  feel  right  well,  and  am  going  to  my  room  to 
lie  down/  And  saying  this,  he  brushed  right  past  me, 
and  went  up  stairs.  I  followed  after  him,  but  when  I 
tried  his  door  it  was  fastened  on  the  inside.  I  called 
three  times  before  he  answered,  and  then  he  said — 
« Mother,  I'm  not  sick;  but  I  feel  bad  and  want  to  be 
alone.  Please  don't  disturb  me  to-night.'  I  don't 
think  I  would  have  known  the  voice  if  it  hadn't  been 
just  then  and  there.  Knowing  his  disposition,  anxious 
and  troubled  as  I  was,  I  felt  that  it  would  be  best  for 
the  time  being  to  let  him  alone.  And  I  did  so.  For 
an  hour  or  more  all  in  his  room  was  as  still  as  death, 
and  I  began  to  grow  very  uneasy.  Then  I  heard  his 
feet  upon  the  floor  moving  about.  I  heard  him  walk 
to  his  bureau — my  ears  served  me  for  eyes — then  to 
the  mantlepiece,  and  then  to  the  window.  All  was  still 
again  for  some  minutes.  My  heart  beat  like  a  hammer, 
as  one  vague  suggestion  after  another  floated  through 
my  mind.  Then  he  crossed  the  room  with  a  slow  step ; 
turned  and  went  back  again ;  and  so  kept  on  walking 
to  and  fro.  I  listened,  waiting  for  the  sound  to  cease ; 
but  he  walked  on  and  on,  backwards  and  forwards, 
backwards  and  forwards,  tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  until  it 
seemed  as  if  every  jarring  footfall  was  on  my  heart. 
Oh,  Doctor  !  I  never  had  anything  to  affect  me  so  be 
fore  in  my  whole  life.  An  hour  passed,  and  still  he 
walked  the  floor  of  his  room.  I  could  bear  it  no 
longer,  and  went  and  called  to  him.  But  he  seemed 
deaf,  and  made  no  reply.  I  rattled  at  the  lock  and 
called  again  and  again.  Then  he  came  close  to  the 
door,  and  said,  speaking  a  little  impatiently  for  him— 


HENRY  WALLINGFORD.  11 

6  Mother !  Mother  !  For  Heaven's  sake  don't  trouble 
me  !  I  don't  feel  just  right,  and  you  must  let  me 
alone  for  the  present.' 

"  Well,  he  kept  on  walking  for  an  hour  longer,  and 
then  everything  was  still  in  his  room  for  the  night. 
This  morning  on  trying  his  door  it  was  unfastened. 
I  went  in.  He  was  lying  in  bed  wide  awake.  But, 
oh  !  such  a  change  as  I  saw  in  his  face.  It  was  color 
less  as  on  the  evening  before ;  but  less  expressive  of 
emotion.  A  dead  calm  seemed  to  have  settled  upon 
it.  I  took  his  hand ;  it  was  cold.  I  pressed  his  fore 
head  ;  it  was  cold  also.  '  Henry,  my  son,  how  are 
you?'  I  asked.  He  did  not  reply  ;  but  looked  in  my 
face  with  a  cold,  steady  gaze  that  chilled  me.  <  Are 
you  sick,  my  son  ?'  He  merely  shook  his  head  slowly. 
6  Has  anything  happened  ?  What  has  happened  ?'  I 
presse  d  my  question  upon  him  ;  but  it  was  of  no  use. 
He  would  not  satisfy  me.  I  then  asked  if  he  would 
not  rise.  '  Not  yet,'  he  said.  '  Shall  I  bring  you 
Borne  breakfast  ?'  '  No — no — 1  cannot  eat.'  And  he 
shook  his  head  and  shut  his  eyes,  while  there  came 
into  his  face  a  look  so  sad  and  suffering  that  as  I 
gazed  on  him  I  could  not  keep  the  tears  back. 

"  And  it  has  been  no  better  with  him  all  the  day, 
Doctor,"  added  Mrs.  Wallingford,  heaving  a  long  sigh. 
"  Oh,  I  am  distressed  to  death  about  it.  Won't  you 
come  and  see  him  ?  I'm  afraid  if  something  isn't  done 
that  he  will  lose  his  senses." 

"Have  you  no  conjecture  as  to  the  cause  of  this 
strange  condition  of  mind?"  I  asked. 

"None,"  she  replied.    "Henry  is  a  reserved  young 


12  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,  AND  NOW. 

man,  you  know,  Doctor;  and  keeps  many  things 
hidden  in  his  mind  even  from  me  that  should  be  out 
spoken." 

"  Has  he  no  love  affair  on  hand?" 

"  I  think  not." 

"  Hasn't  he  been  paying  attention  to  Squire  Floyd's 
daughter?" 

"Delia?" 

"Yes." 

"I  believe  not,  Doctor." 

"I've  seen  him  at  the  Squire's." 

"Nothing  serious,  or  I  should  have  known  of  it. 
Henry  is  rather  shy  about  the  girls." 

"And  you  wish  me  to  see  him  to-night?" 

"  Yes.     Something  ought  to  be  done." 

"What  is  his  condition  just  now?"  I  inquired. 
"How  did  you  leave  him  ?" 

"  He's  been  in  bed  nearly  all  day,  and  hasn't 
touched  a  mouthful.  To  all  my  persuasions  and  en 
treaties  he  answers — '  Please,  mother,  let  me  alone.  I 
will  be  better  after  a  while.'  ' 

"  I  think,"  said  I,  after  musing  on  the  case,  "  that, 
may  be,  the  let-alone  prescription  will  be  the  best  one 
for  the  present.  He  is  prostrated  by  some  strong  men 
tal  emotion — that  seems  clear ;  and  time  must  be  given 
for  the  mind  to  regain  its  equipoise.  If  I  were  to 
call,  as  you  desire,  it  might  annoy  or  irritate  him,  and 
so  do  more  harm  than  good.  No  medicine  that  I  can 
give  is  at  all  likely  to  reach  his  case." 

Mrs.  Wallingford  looked  disappointed,  and  demurred 
strongly  to  my  conclusion. 


THE   OLD   ALLEN  HOUSE.  13 

"  I'm  sure,  Doctor,  if  you  saw  him  you  might  sug 
gest  something.  Or,  may  be,  he  would  open  his  mind 
to  you." 

"  I'll  think  it  over,7'  said  I.  "  Mrs.  Jones  has  sent 
for  me  to  see  her  baby  to-night.  I  was  just  about 
starting  when  you  called.  On  my  way  back,  if,  on 
reflection,  it  seems  to  me  advisable,  I  will  drop  in  at 
your  house." 

"  Call  at  any  rate,  Doctor,"  urged  Mrs.  Walling- 
ford.  "  Even  if  you  don't  see  Henry,  you  may  be  able 
to  advise  me  as  to  what  I  had  better  do." 

I  gave  my  promise,  and  the  troubled  mother  went 
back  through  storm  and  darkness  to  her  home.  By 
this  time  my  overcoat  was  thoroughly  dried.  As  Con 
stance  brought  it  forth  warm  from  the  fire,  she  looked 
into  my  face  with  an  expression  of  inquiry.  But  I 
was  not  ready  to  speak  in  regard  to  Mrs.  Wallingford, 
and,  perceiving  this  at  a  glance,  she  kept  silence  on  that 
subject. 

As  I  opened  the  front  door,  the  storm  swept  into  my 
face  ;  but  I  passed  out  quickly  into  the  night,  and 
shielding  myself  with  an  umbrella,  as  best  I  could, 
bent  to  the  rushing  wind,  and  took  my  solitary  way  in 
the  direction  of  Mrs.  Jones's  humble  dwelling,  which 
lay  quite  upon  the  outskirts  of  our  town.  To  reach 
my  destination,  I  had  to  pass  the  Old  Allen  House, 
which  stood  within  a  high  stone  enclosure,  surrounded 
by  stately  elms  a  century  old,  which  spread  their  great 
arms  above  and  around  the  decaying  mansion,  as  if  to 
ward  off  the  encroachments  of  time.  As  I  came  op 
posite  the  gate  opening  upon  the  carriage  way,  I 


14  TWENTY   YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

stopped  suddenly  in  surprise,  for  light  streamed  out 
from  both  windows  of  the  north-west  chamber,  which  I 
knew  had  been  closed  ever  since  the  death  of  Captain 
Allen,  who  passed  to  his  account  several  years  before. 

This  Allen  House  was  one  of  the  notable  places  in 
our  town  ;  and  the  stories  in  circulation  touching  the 
Allen  family,  now  almost  extinct,  were  so  strongly 
tinctured  with  romance,  that  sober-minded  people  gen 
erally  received  them  with  a  large  measure  of  incredu 
lity. 

The  spacious  old  two-story  mansion,  with  its  high- 
pitched  roof  and  rows  of  dormer  windows,  was  built  by 
the  father  of  Captain  Allen,  who  had  also  followed  the 
sea,  and,  it  was  said,  obtained  his  large  wealth  through 
means  not  sanctioned  by  laws  human  or  divine.  Men 
and  women  of  the  past  generation,  and  therefore  con 
temporaries,  did  not  hesitate  to  designate  him  an  "  old 
pirate,"  though  always  the  opprobrious  words  were 
spoken  in  an  undertone,  for  people  were  half  afraid  of 
the  dark,  reserved,  evil-looking  man,  who  had  evidently 
passed  a  large  portion  of  his  life  among  scenes  of  peril 
and  violence.  There  were  more  pleasing  traditions  of 
the  beautiful  wife  he  brought  home  to  grace  the  luxu 
rious  dwelling  he  had  fitted  up  in  a  style  of  almost 
princely  splendor,  compared  with  the  plain  abode  of 
even  the  best  off  people  in  town.  Who  she  was,  or  from 
whence  she  came,  no  one  knew  certainly.  She  was 
very  young— almost  a  child— when  the  elder  Captain 
Allen  brought  her  to  S -. 

Very  little  intercourse,  I  believe,  passed  between  the 
Allen  family  and  the  town's-people,  except  in  a 


CAPTAIN   ALLEN.  15 

business  way.  The  first  regular  entry  made  into  the 
house  beyond  the  formal  drawing-room,  was  on  the 
occasion  of  a  birth,  when  the  best  nurse  and  gossip  in 
town  was  summoned  to  attend  the  young  mistress.  A 
son  was  born.  He  was  called  John  ;  though  not  under 
the  sign  of  Christian  baptism — John  Allen;  after 
wards  Captain  Allen.  The  old  sea-dog,  his  father,  was 
absent  at  the  time ;  but  returned  before  the  infant 
was  four  weeks  old.  The  nurse  described  the  meeting 
of  husband  and  wife  as  very  lover-like  and  tender  on 
his  part,  but  with  scarcely  a  sign  of  feeling  on  hers. 
She  did  not  repel  him,  nor  turn  from  him;  but  re 
ceived  his  caresses  with  the  manner  of  one  in  whom  all 
quick  emotion  had  died.  And  so  it  continued  between 
them — he  thoughtful  and  assiduous,  and  she  cold,  and 
for  the  most  part  silent.  But,  to  her  babe,  the  young 
mother  was  passionate  at  times  in  her  loving  demon 
strations.  The  pent  up  waters  of  feeling  gave  way  in 
this  direction,  and  poured  themselves  out,  often,  in  a 
rushing  flood.  Towards  all  others  she  bore  herself 
with  a  calm,  sweet  dignity  of  manner,  that  captivated 
the  heart,  and  made  it  sigh  for  a  better  acquaintance 
with  one  around  whom  mystery  had  hung  a  veil  that 
no  hand  but  her  own  could  push  aside — and  that  hand 
was  never  lifted. 

The  next  event  in  the  Allen  House,  noted  by  the 
people,  was  the  birth  of  a  daughter.  The  same  nurse 
was  called  in,  who  remained  the  usual  time,  and  then 
retired;  bearing  with  her  a  history  of  the  period, 
which  she  related,  very  confidentially,  at  tea-tables, 
and  in  familiar  gossip  with  choice  spirits  of  her  own. 


16  TWENTY   YEARS   AGO,   AND  NOW. 

Those  who  knew  her  best,  were  always  something  in 
doubt  as  to  which  of  her  stories  contained  truth  and 
which  romance.  The  latter  element  mingled  largely, 
it  is  presumed,  in  all  of  them. 

A  great  change  had  taken  place  in  the  Captain's 
manner.  He  no  longer  played  the  lover  to  a  cold  and 
di&tant  mistress,  but  carried  himself  haughtily  at  times 
— captiously  at  times — and  always  with  an  air  of  indif 
ference.  All  affection  seemed  transferred  to  his  boy, 
who  was  growing  self-willed,  passionate,  and  daring. 
These  qualities  were  never  repressed  by  his  father,  but 
rather  encouraged  and  strengthened.  On  learning 
that  his  next  heir  was  a  daughter,  he  expressed  impa 
tience,  and  muttered  something  about  its  being  strangled 
at  birth.  The  nurse  said  that  he  never  deigned  even 
to  look  at  it  while  she  was  in  the  house. 

The  beautiful  young  wife  showed  signs  of  change, 
also.  Much  of  the  old  sweetness  had  left  her  mouth, 
which  was  calmer  and  graver.  Her  manner  towards 
Captain  Allen,  noted  before,  was  of  the  same  quiet, 
distant  character,  but  more  strongly  marked.  It  was 
plain  that  she  had  no  love  for  him.  The  great  mystery 
was,  how  two  so  wholly  unlike  in  all  internal  qualities, 
and  external  seeming,  could  ever  have  been  constrained 
into  the  relationship  of  man  and  wife.  She  was, 
evidently,  an  English  woman.  This  was  seen  in  her 
rich  complexion,  sweet  blue  eyes,  fair  hair,  and  quiet 
dignity  of  manner.  Among  the  many  probable  and 
improbable  rumors  as  to  her  first  meeting  with  Captain 
Allen,  this  one  had  currency.  A  sailor,  who  had  seen 


THE  ENGLISH  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER.     17 

a  good  deal  of  service  in  the  West  Indies,  told  the 
following  story  : 

An  English  vessel  from  Jamaica,  richly  freighted, 
had  on  board  a  merchant  with  his  family,  returning 
from  a  residence  of  a  few  years  on  the  island,  to  the 
mother  country. 

They  had  been  out  only  a  day,  when  a  pirate  bore 
down  upon  them,  and  made  an  easy  capture  of  the 
ship.  The  usual  bloody  scenes  of  that  day  followed. 
Death,  in  terrible  forms,  met  the  passengers  and  crew, 
and  the  vessel,  after  being  robbed  of  its  costliest  trea 
sures,  was  scuttled  and  sent  down  into  the  far  depths 
of  the  ocean,  from  whence  no  sign  could  ever  come. 

But  one  living  soul  was  spared — so  the  story  went. 
An  only  child  of  the  English  merchant,  a  fair  and 
beautiful  young  girl,  whose  years  had  compassed  only 
the  early  spring-time  of  life,  flung  herself  upon  her 
knees  before  the  pirate  Captain  and  begged  so  piteous- 
ly  for  life,  that  he  spared  her  from  the  general 
slaughter  he  had  himself  decreed.  Something  in  her 
pure,  exquisitely  beautiful  face,  touched  his  compassion. 
There  were  murmurs  of  discontent  among  his  savage 
crew.  But  the  strong-willed  Captain  had  his  way, 
and  when  he  sailed  back  with  his  booty  to  their  place 
of  rendezvous,  he  bore  with  him  the  beautiful  maiden. 
Here,  it  was  said,  he  gave  her  honorable  protection, 
and  had  her  cared  for  as  tenderly  as  was  possible 
under  the  circumstances.  And  it  was  further  related, 
that,  when  the  maiden  grew  to  ripe  womanhood,  he 
abandoned  the  trade  of  a  buccaneer  and  made  her  his 
wife.  The  sailor  told  this  story,  shrugged  his  shoul- 
2 


18  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

ders,  looked  knowing  and  mysterious,  and  left  his 
auditors  to  draw  what  inference  they  pleased.  As  they 
had  been  talking  of  Captain  Allen,  the  listeners  made 
their  own  conclusion  as  to  his  identity  with  the  buc 
caneer.  True  to  human  nature,  in  its  inclination  to 
believe  always  the  worst  of  a  man,  nine  out  of  ten 
credited  the  story  as  applied  to  the  cut-throat  looking 
captain,  and  so,  after  this,  it  was  no  unusual  thing  to 
hear  him  designated  by  the  not  very  flattering  so 
briquet  of  the  "old  pirate." 

Later  events,  still  more  inexplicable  in  their  char 
acter,  and  yet  unexplained,  gave  color  to  this  story, 
and  invested  it  with  the  elements  of  probability.  As 
related,  the  old  gossip's  second  intrusion  upon  the 
Aliens,  in  the  capacity  of  nurse,  furnished  the  town's- 
people  with  a  few  additional  facts,  as  to  the  state  of 
things  inside  of  a  dwelling,  upon  whose  very  walls 
seemed  written  mystery.  In  the  beginning,  Mrs.  Allen 
had  made  a  few  acquaintances,  who  were  charmed  with 
her  character,  as  far  as  she  let  herself  be  known.  Visits 
were  made  and  returned  for  a  short  season.  But 
after  the  birth  of  her  first  child,  she  went  abroad  but 
rarely,  and  ceasing  to  return  all  visits,  social  inter 
course  came  to  an  end.  The  old  nurse  insisted  that 
this  was  not  her  fault,  but  wholly  chargeable  upon  the 
Captain,  who,  she  was  certain,  had  forbidden  his  wife 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  the  town's-people. 


ARRIVAL   OF  A   STRANGER.  19 


CHAPTER   II. 

ONE  day,  nearly  two  years  after  the  birth  of  this 

second  child,  the  quiet  town  of  S was  aroused 

from  its  dreams  by  a  strange  and  startling  event. 
About  a  week  before,  a  handsomely  dressed  man,  with 
the  air  of  a  foreigner,  alighted  from  the  stage  coach 
at  the  "White  Swan,"  and  asked  if  he  could  have  a 
room.  A  traveler  of  such  apparent  distinction  was 

a  rare  event  in  S ;  and  as  he  suggested  the 

probable  stay  of  a  week  or  so,  he  became  an  object  of 
immediate  attention,  as  well  as  curiosity. 

Night  had  closed  in  when  he  arrived,  and  as  he  was 
fatigued  by  his  journey  in  the  old  lumbering  stage 
coach  that  ran  between  the  nearest  sea-port  town  and 

S ,  he  did  not  show  himself  again  that  evening 

to  the  curious  people  who  were  to  be  found  idling  about 
the  "  White  Swan."  But  he  had  a  talk  with  the 
landlord.  That  functionary  waited  upon  him  to  know 
his  pleasure  as  to  supper. 

"  The  ride  has  given  me  a  headache,"  the  stranger 
said,  "  which  a  cup  of  tea  will  probably  remove. 
Beyond  that,  I  will  take  nothing  to-night.  Your  name 
is—" 


20  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,  AND   NOW. 

"Adams,  sir.  Adams  is  my  name,"  replied  the 
landlord. 

"  And  mine  is  Willoughby—Col.  Willoughby."  And 
the  Englishman  bowed  with  a  slight  air  of  condescen 
sion. 

"I  am  at  your  service,  Col.  Willoughby,"  said  the 
landlord  in  his  blunt  way.  "  Just  say  what  you  want, 
and  the  thing  is  done." 

"A  cup  of  tea  will  serve  me  to-night,  my  friend. 
Let  it  be  good  and  strong ;  for  my  head  is  a  little 
unsettled  with  this  throbbing  pain.  That  stage  coach 
of  yours  would  be  something  better  for  a  pair  of  new 
springs." 

"  It's  seen  service,  and  no  mistake.  But  people  in 
these  parts  don't  calculate  much  on  easy  riding. 
Springs  are  no  great  account.  We  look  to  the  main 
chance." 

"  What  is  that  ?" 

"  Getting  over  the  ground." 

The  traveler  smiled  to  himself  in  a  quiet  way,  as 
if  the  landlord's  answer  had  touched  some  memory  or 
experience. 

Nothing  further  being  remarked,  Mr.  Adams  retired 
to  order  a  cup  of  tea  for  his  guest.  Something  about 
the  Englishman  had  stimulated  his  curiosity ;  and,  so, 
instead  of  sending  the  cup  of  tea  by  his  wife,  who  did 
most  of  the  waiting,  he  carried  it  to  the  room  himself. 

"  Sit  down,  Mr.  Adams,"  said  the  traveler,  after 
the  tea  had  been  put  before  him. 

The  landlord  did  not  wait  for  a  second  invitation. 

"I  hope  the  tea  is  to  your  liking,  sir." 


COLONEL  WILLOUGHBY.  21 

"Excellent.  I've  not  tasted  better  since  I  left 
London." 

The  traveler  spoke  blandly,  as  he  held  his  cup  a 
little  way  from  his  lips,  and  looked  over  the  top  of  it 
at  his  host  with  something  more  than  a  casual  glance. 
He  was  reading  his  face  with  an  evident  effort  to  gain 
from  it,  as  an  index,  some  clear  impression  of  his 
character. 

"  My  wife  understands  her  business,"  replied  the 
flattered  landlord.  "  There  is  not  her  equal  in  all  the 
country  round." 

"  I  can  believe  you,  Mr.  Adams.  Already  this 
delicious  beverage  has  acted  like  a  charmed  potion. 
My  headache  has  left  me  as  if  by  magic."  . 

He  set  his  cup  down ;  moved  his  chair  a  litle  way 
from  the  table  at  which  he  was  sitting,  and  threw  a 
pleasant  look  upon  the  landlord. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  in  this  town,  Mr. 
Adams?"  The  question  seemed  indifferently  asked  ; 
but  the  landlord's  ear  did  not  fail  to  perceive  in  the 
tone  in  which  it  was  given,  a  foreshadowing  of  much 
beyond. 

"I  was  born  here,"  he  replied. 

"  Ah  !     Then  you  know  all  the  people,  I  imagine  ?" 

"  I  know  all  their  faces,  at  least." 

"And  their  histories  and  characters?" 

"Perhaps." 

Something  in  this  "perhaps,"  and  the  tone  in  which 
it  was  uttered,  seemed  not  to  strike  the  questioner 
agreeably.  He  bent  his  brows  a  little,  and  looked 
more  narrowly  at  the  landlord. 


22 

"  I  did  not  see  much  of  your  town  as  I  came  in  this 
evening.  How  large  is  it?" 

"Middling  good  size,  sir,  for  an  inland  town,"  was 
the  not  very  satisfactory  answer. 

"What  is  the  population?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know — can't  just  say  to  a  certainty." 

"Two  thousand?" 

"Laws  !  no  sir !     Not  over  one,  if  that." 

"About  a  thousand,  then?" 

"  Maybe  a  thousand,  and  maybe  not  more  than  six 
or  seven  hundred." 

"  Call  it  seven  hundred,  then,"  said  the  traveler, 
evidently  a  little  amused. 

"  And  that  will,  in  my  view,  be  calling  it  enough." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  traveler  seemed  in  doubt 
as  to  whether  he  should  go  on  with  his  queries. 

"  Not  much  trade  here,  I  presume?"  He  asked,  at 
.  length. 

"Not  much  to  boast  .of,"  said  Adams. 

Another  pause. 

"  Any  well-to-do  people?  Gentlemen  who  live  on 
their  means?" 

"  Yes ;  there's  Aaron  Thompson.  He's  rich,  I  guess. 
But  you  can't  measure  a  snake  'till  he's  dead,  as  thev 
say." 

"  True,"  said  the  traveler,  seeming  to  fall  into  the 
landlord's  mood.  "  Executors  often  change  the  public 
estimate  of  a  man  as  to  this  world's  goods.  So,  Aaron 
Thompson  is  one  of  your  rich  men?" 

"  Yes,  and  there's  Abel  Reeder— a  close-fisted  old 


WILLOUGHBY'S  QUESTIONS,  23 

dog,  but  wealthy  as  a  Jew,  and  no  mistake.     Then 
there  is  Captain  Allen." 

A  flash  of  interest  went  over  the  stranger's  face, 
which  was  turned  at  once  from  the  light. 

"  Captain  Allen !  And  what  of  him?"  The  voice 
was  pitched  to  a  lower  tone ;  but  there  was  no  appear 
ance  of  special  curiosity. 

"A  great  deal  of  him."  The  landlord  put  on  a 
knowing  look. 

"Is  he  a  sea  captain?" 

"Yes;"  and  lowering  his  voice,  "something  else 
besides,  if  we  are  to  credit  people  who  pretend  to 
know." 

"  Ah !  but  you  speak  in  riddles,  Mr.  Adams.  What 
do  you  mean  by  something  more?" 

"  Why,  the  fact  is,  Mr.  Willoughby,  they  do  say,  that 
ho  got  his  money  in  a  backhanded  sort  of  fashion." 

"By  gambling?" 

"  No,  sir  !     By  piracy  !" 

Col.  Willoughby  gave  a  real  or  affected  start. 

"  A  grave  charge  that,  sir."     He  looked  steadily  at 
the  landlord.     "And  one  that  should  not  be  lightly 
made." 
t     "  I  only  report  the  common  talk." 

"  If  such  talk  should  reach  the  ears  of  Captain 
Allen  ?"  suggested  the  stranger. 

"  No  great  likelihood  of  its  doing  so,  for  I  reckon 

there's  no  man  in  S bold  enough  to  say  'pirate' 

to  his  face." 

"  What  kind  of  a  man  is  he  ?" 

"A  bad  specimen  in  every  way." 


24  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 

"  He's  no  favorite  -of  yours,  I  see  ?" 

"  I  have  no  personal  cause  of  dislike.  We  never 
had  many  words  together,"  said  the  landlord.  "  But 
he's  a  man  that  you  want  to  get  as  far  away  from  as 
possible.  There  are  men,  you  know,  who  kind  of 
draw  you  towards  them,  as  if  they  were  made  of  load 
stone  ;  and  others  that  seem  to  push  you  off.  Captain 
Allen  is  one  of  the  latter  kind." 

"  What  sort  of  a  looking  man  is  he  ?" 

"  Short ;  thick-set ;  heavily  built,  as  to  body.  A 
full,  coarse  face ;  dark  leathery  skin ;  and  eyes  that 
are  a  match  for  the  Evil  One's.  There  is  a  deep  scar 
across  his  left  forehead,  running  past  the  outer  corner 
of  his  eye,  and  ending  against  the  cheek  bone.  The 
lower  lid  of  this  eye  is  drawn  down,  and  the  inside 
turned  out,  showing  its  deep  red  lining.  There  is 
another  scar  on  his  chin.  Two  fingers  are  gone  from 
his  left  hand,  and  his  right  hand  has  suffered  violence." 

"He  has  evidently  seen  hard  service,"  remarked 
the  stranger,  and  in  a  voice  that  showed  him  to  be 
suppressing,  as  best  he  could,  all  signs  of  interest  in 
the  landlord's  communication. 

"  There's  no  mistake  about  that ;  and  if  you  could 
only  see  him,  my  word  for  it,  you  would  fall  into  the 
common  belief  that  blood  lies  upon  his  conscience." 

"  I  shall  certainly  put  myself  in  the  way  of  seeing 
him,  after  the  spur  you  have  just  given  to  my  curi 
osity,"  said  Col.  Willoughby,  in  a  decided  manner,  as 
if  he  had  an  interest  in  the  man  beyond  what  the 
landlord's  communication  had  excited. 

"Then  you  will   have   to  remain  here   something 


QUESTIONS   ANSWERED.  25 

more  than  a  week,  I'm  thinking,"  replied  the  land 
lord. 

"Why  so?" 

"  Captain  Allen  isn't  at  home." 

There  was  a  sudden  change  in  the  stranger's  face 
that  did  not  escape  the  landlord's  notice.  But  whether 
it  indicated  pleasure  or  disappointment,  he  could  not 
tell ;  for  it  was  at  best  a  very  equivocal  expression. 

"  Not  at  home !"   His  voice  indicated  surprise. 

"No,  sir," 

"  How  long  has  he  been  absent  ?" 

"About  a  month." 

"  And  is  expected  to  return  soon,  no  doubt  ?" 

"  As  to  that,  I  can't  say.  Few  people  in  this  town 
I  apprehend,  can  speak  with  certainty  as  to  the  going 
and  coming  of  Captain  Allen." 

"  Is  he  often  away  ?" 

"  No,  sir  ;  but  oftener  of  late  than  formerly." 

"  Is  his  absence  usually  of  a  prolonged  character?" 

"  It  is  much  longer  than  it  used  to  be — never  less 
than  a  month,  and  often  extended  to  three  times  that 
period." 

Colonel  Willoughby  sat  without  further  remark  for 
some  time,  his  eyes  bent  down,  his  brows  contracted 
by  thought,  and  his  lips  firmly  drawn  together. 

"Thank  you,  my  friend,"  he  said,  at  length,  look 
ing  up,  "for  your  patience  in  answering  my  idle 
questions.  I  will  not  detain  you  any  longer." 

The  landlord  arose,  and,  bowing  to  Jiis  guest,  re 
tired  from  the  apartment. 


26  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 


CHAPTER   III. 

ON  the  next  morning  Colonel  Willoughby  plied  the 
landlord  with  a  few  more  questions  about  Captain 
Allen,  and  then,  inquiring  the  direction  of  his  house, 
started  out,  as  he  said,  to  take  a  ramble  through  the 
town.  He  did  not  come  back  until  near  dinner  time, 
and  then  he  showed  no  disposition  to  encourage  fam 
iliarity  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Adams.  But  that  individu 
al  was  not  in  the  dark  touching  the  morning  wherea 
bouts  of  his  friend.  A  familiar  of  his,  stimulated  by 
certain  good  things  which  the  landlord  knew  when  and 
how  to  dispense,  had  tracked  the  stranger  from  the 
"  White  Swan"  to  Captain  Allen's  house.  After 
walking  around  it,  on  the  outside  of  the  enclosure  once 
or  twice,  and  viewing  it  on  all  sides,  he  had  ventured, 
at  last,  through  the  gate,  and  up  to  the  front  door  of 
the  stately  mansion.  A  servant  admitted  him,  and 
the  landlord's  familiar  loitered  around  for  nearly  three 
hours  before  he  came  out.  Mrs.  Allen  accompanied 
him  to  the  door,  and  stood  and  talked  with  him  earnest 
ly  for  some  time  in  the  portico.  They  shook  hands  in 
parting,  and  Colonel  Willoughby  retired  with  a  firm, 
slow  step,  and  his  eyes  bent  downwards  as  if  his 
thoughts  were  sober,  if  not  oppressive. 


VILLAGE    CONJECTURES.  27 

All  this  Mr.  Adams  knew ;  and  of  course,  his 
curiosity  was  pitched  to  a  high  key.  But,  it  was  all 
in  vain  that  he  threw  himself  in  the  way  of  his  guest, 
made  leading  remarks,  and  even  asked  if  he  had  seen 
the  splendid  dwelling  of  Captain  Allen.  The  hand 
some  stranger  held  him  firmly  at  a  distance.  And  not 
only  on  that  day  and  evening,  but  on  the  next  day  and 
the  next.  He  was  polite  even  to  blandness,  but  suf 
fered  no  approach  beyond  the  simplest  formal  inter 
course.  Every  morning  he  was  seen  going  to  Captain 
Allen's  house,  where  he  always  stayed  several  hours. 
The  afternoons  he  spent,  for  the  most  part,  in  his  own 
room. 

All  this  soon  became  noised  throughout  the  town 
of  S ,  and  there  was  a  little  world  of  excite 
ment,  and  all  manner  of  conjectures,  as  to  who  this 
Colonel  Willoughby  might  be.  The  old  nurse,  of 
whom  mention  has  been  made,  presuming  upon  her 
professional  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Allen,  took  the 
liberty  of  calling  in  one  afternoon,  when,  to  her  cer 
tain  knowledge,  the  stranger  was  in  the  house.  She 
was,  however,  disappointed  in  seeing  him.  The  ser 
vant  who  admitted  her  showed  her  into  a  small  recep 
tion-room,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  hall  from  the  main 
parlor,  and  here  Mrs.  Allen  met  her.  She  was  "  very 
sweet  to  her  " — to  uso  her  own  words — sweet,  and 
kind,  and  gentle  as  ever.  But  she  looked  paler  than 
usual,  and  did  not  seem  to  be  at  ease. 

The  nurse  reported  that  something  was  going  wrong ; 
but,  as  to  its  exact  nature,  she  was  in  the  dark.  It 
certainly  didn't  look  right  for  Mrs.  Allen  to  be  re- 


28  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 

ceiving  daily  the  visits  of  an  elegant  looking  stranger, 
and  her  husband  away.  There  was  only  one  opinion 
on  this  head. 

And  so  it  went  on  from  day  to  day  for  nearly  a 
Week — Colonel  Willoughby,  as  he  had  called  himself, 
spending  the  greater  part  of  every  morning  with  Mrs. 
Allen,  and  hiding  himself  from  curious  eyes,  during 
the  afternoons,  in  his  room  at  the  "White  Swan." 
Then  came  the  denouement  to  this  exciting  little 
drama. 

One  day  the  stranger,  after  dining,  asked  Mr. 
Adams  for  his  bill,  which  he  paid  in  British  gold. 
He  then  gave  directions  to  have  a  small  trunk,  the 
only  baggage  he  had  with  him,  sent  to  the  house  of 
Captain  Allen. 

The  landlord  raised  his  eyebrows,  of  course ;  looked 
very  much  surprised,  and  even  ventured  a  curious 
question.  But  the  stranger  repelled  all  inquisition 
touching  his  movements.  And  so  he  left  the  "  White 
Swan,"  after  sojourning  there  for  nearly  a  week,  and 
the  landlord  never  saw  him  again. 

The  news  which  came  on  the  following  day,  created 

no  little  sensation  in  S .  Jacob  Perkins,  who 

lived  near  Captain  Allen's,  and  often  worked  for  him, 
told  the  story.  His  relation  was  to  this  effect :  About 
ten  o'clock  at  night,  Mrs.  Allen  sent  for  him,  and  he 
waited  on  her  accordingly.  He  found  her  dressed  as 
for  a  journey,  but  alone. 

"  Take  a  seat,  Jacob,"  she  said.  "I  wish  to  have 
some  talk  with  you."  The  man  noticed  something 
unusual  in  her  talk  and  manner. 


JACOB   PERKINS.  29 

"Jacob,"  she  resumed,  after  a  pause,  bending  to 
wards  Mr,  Perkins,  "  can  I  trust  you  in  a  matter  re 
quiring  both  service  and  secrecy  ?  I  have  done  some 
kind  things  for  you  and  yours  ;  I  now  wish  you  to  re 
turn  the  favor." 

As  she  spoke,  she  drew  out  a  purse,  and  let  him 
see  something  of  its  golden  contents. 

"  Say  on,  Mrs.  Allen.  You  may  trust  me.  If  you 
ask  anything  short  of  a  crime,  it  shall  be  done.  Yes, 
you  have  been  kind  to  me  and  mine,  and  now  I  will 
repay  you,  if  in  my  power  to  do  so." 

Jacob  Perkins  was  in  earnest.  But,  whether  grati 
tude,  or  that  apparition  of  golden  sovereigns,  had 
most  influence  upon  him,  cannot  at  this  remote  period 
be  said. 

"Can  you  get  a  pair  of  horses  and  a  carriage,  or 
light  wagon,  to-night  ?" 

"I  can,"  replied  Jacob. 

"  And  so  as  not  to  excite  undue  curiosity  ?" 

"I  think  so." 

"Very  well.  Next,  will  you  drive  that  team  all 
night?" 

And  Mrs.  Allen  played  with  the  purse  of  gold,  and 
let  the  coins  it  contained  strike  each  other  with  a  mu 
sical  chink,  very  pleasant  to  the  ear  of  Jacob  Per 
kins. 

"  You  shall  be  paid  handsomely  for  your  trouble," 
added  the  lady,  as  she  fixed  her  beautiful  blue  eyes 
upon  Jacob  with  an  earnest,  almost  pleading  look. 

"I  hope  there  is  nothing  wrong,"  said  Jacob,  as 


30 

some  troublesome  suspicions  began  turning  themselves 
over  in  his  mind. 

"Nothing  wrong,  as  God  is  my  witness!"  And 
Mrs.  Allen  lifted  her  pale  face  reverently  upwards. 

"  Forgive  me,  madam ;  I  might  have  known  that," 
said  Jacob.  "And  now,  if  you  will  give  me  your 
orders,  they  shall  be  obeyed  to  the  letter." 

"  Thank  you,  my  kind  friend,"  returned  Mrs.  Allen. 
"  The  service  you  are  now  about  to  render  me,  cannot 
be  estimated  in  the  usual  way.  To  me,  it  will  be  far 
beyond  all  price." 

She  was  agitated,  and  paused  to  recover  herself. 
Then  she  resumed,  with  her  usual  calmness  of 
manner — 

"Bring  the  carriage  here — driving  with  as  little 
noise  as  possible — in  half  an  hour.  Be  very  discreet. 
Don't  mention  the  matter  even  to  your  wife.  You  can 
talk  with  her  as  freely  as  you  choose  on  your  return 
from  Boston." 

"  From  Boston  ?  Why,  that  is  thirty  miles  away, 
at  least!" 

"  I  know  it,  Jacob ;  but  I  must  be  in  Boston  early 
to-morrow  morning.  You  know  the  road  ?  " 

"Every  foot  of  it." 

"  So  much  the  better.  And  now  go  for  the  car 
riage." 

Jacob  Perkins  arose.  As  he  was  turning  to  go, 
Mrs.  Allen  placed  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and 
said — 

"I  can  trust  you,  Mr.  Perkins?" 

"Madam,  you  can,"  was  his  reply;  and  he  passed 


PERKINS'  DOUBTS.  31 

from  the  quiet  house  into  the  darkness  without.  The 
night  was  moonless,  but  the  stars  shone  down  from  an 
unclouded  sky.  When  Jacob  Perkins  found  himself 
alone,  and  began  to  look  this  adventure  full  in  the 
face,  some  unpleasant  doubts  touching  the  part  he  was 
about  to  play,  intruded  themselves  upon  his  thoughts. 
He  had  seen  the  handsome  stranger  going  daily  to 
visit  Mrs.  Allen,  for  now  nearly  a  week,  and  had  lis 
tened  to  the  town  talk  touching  the  matter,  until  his 
own  mind  was  filled  with  the  common  idea,  that  some 
thing  was  wrong.  And  now,  to  be  called  on  to  drive 
Mrs.  Allen  to  Boston,  secretly,  and  under  cover  of 
the  night,  seemed  so  much  like  becoming  a  party  to 
some  act  of  folly  or  crime,  that  he  gave  way  to  hesita 
tion,  and  began  to  seek  for  reasons  that  would  justify 
his  playing  the  lady  false.  Then  came  up  the  image 
of  her  sweet,  reverent  face,  as  she  said  so  earnestly, 
"  Nothing  wrong,  as  God  is  my  witness  ! "  And  his 
first  purpose  was  restored. 

Punctually,  at  half-past  ten  o'clock,  the  team  of 
Jacob  Perkins  drove  noiselessly  in  through  the  gate, 
and  up  the  carriage-way  to  the  door  of  the  Allen  man 
sion.  No  lights  were  visible  in  any  part  of  the  house. 
Under  the  portico  were  two  figures,  a  man  and  a 
woman — the  man  holding  something  in  his  arms,  which, 
on  a  closer  observation,  Jacob  saw  to  be  a  child.  Two 
large  trunks  and  a  small  one  stood  near. 

"Put  them  on  the  carriage,"  said  Mrs.  Allen,  in  a 
low,  steady  voice ;  and  Jacob  obeyed  in  silence.  When 
all  was  ready,  she  got  in,  and  the  man  handed  her  the 
sleeping  child,  and  then  took  his  place  beside  her. 


32 

"  To  Boston,  remember,  Jacob  ;  and  make  the  time 
as  short  as  possible." 

No  other  words  were  spoken.  Jacob  led  his  horses 
down  the  carriage-way  to  the  gate,  which  he  closed 
carefully  after  passing  through ;  and  then  mounting  to 
his  seat,  drove  off  rapidly. 

But  little  conversation  took  place  between  Mrs.  Allen 
and  her  traveling  companion ;  and  that  was  in  so  low 
a  tone  of  voice,  that  Jacob  Perkins  failed  to  catch  a 
single  word,  though  he  bent  his  ear  and  listened  with 
the  closest  attention  whenever  he  heard  a  murmur  of 
voices. 

It  was  after  daylight  when  they  arrived  in  Boston, 
where  Jacob  Perkins  left  them,  and  returned  home 

with  all  speed,  to  wake  up  the  town  of  S with  a 

report  of  his  strange  adventure.  Before  parting  with 
Mrs.  Allen,  she  gave  him  a  purse,  which,  on  examina 
tion,  was  found  to  contain  a  hundred  dollars  in  gold. 
She  also  placed  in  his  hand  a  small  gold  locket,  and 
said,  impressively,  while  her  almost  colorless  lips  qui 
vered,  and  her  bosom  struggled  with  its  pent  up 
feelings — 

"Jacob,  when  my  son — he  is  now  absent  with  his 
father — reaches  his  tenth  year,  give  him  this,  and  say 
that  it  is  a  gift  from  his  mother,  and  contains  a  lock 
of  her  hair.  Can  I  trust  you  faithfully  to  perform  this 
office  of  love?" 

Tears  filled  her  eyes ;  then  her  breast  heaved  with  a 
great  sob. 

"As  Heaven  is  my  witness,  madam,"  answered 
Jacob  Perkins,  "it  shall  be  done." 


THE  MOTHER'S  GIFT.  33 

"  Remember,"  she  said,  "  that  you  are  only  to  give 
this  to  John,  and  not  until  his  tenth  year.  Keep  my 
gift  sacred  from  the  knowledge  of  every  one  until  that 
time,  and  then  let  the  communication  be  to  him 
alone." 

Jacob  Perkins  promised  to  do  according  to  her 
wishes,  and  then  left  her  looking  so  pale,  sad,  and 
miserable,  that,  to  use  his  own  words,  "  he  never  could 
recall  her  image  as  she  stood  looking,  not  at  him,  but 
past  him,  as  if  trying  to  explore  the  future,  without 
thinking  of  some  marble  statue  in  a  grave-yard." 

She  was  never  seen  in  S again. 

3 


34  TWENTY   YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  excitement  in  the  little  town  of  S ,  when 

Jacob  returned  from  Boston,  and  told  his  singular 
story,  may  well  be  imagined.  The  whole  community 
was  in  a  buzz. 

It  was  found  that  Mrs.  Allen  had  so  arranged  mat 
ters,  as  to  get  all  the  servants  away  from  the  house, 
on  one  pretence  or  another,  for  that  night,  except  an 
old  negro  woman,  famous  for  her  good  sleeping  quali 
ties  ;  and  she  was  in  the  land  of  forgetfulness  long  be 
fore  the  hour  appointed  for  flight. 

Many  conjectures  were  made,  and  one  or  two  rather 
philanthropic  individuals  proposed,  as  a  common  duty, 
an  attempt  to  arrest  the  fugitives  and  bring  them  back. 
But  there  were  none  to  second  this,  the  general  senti 
ment  being,  that  Captain  Allen  was  fully  competent  to 
look  after  his  own  affairs.  And  that  he  would  look 
after  them,  and  promptly  too,  on  his  return,  none 
doubted  for  an  instant.  As  for  Jacob  Perkins,  no  one 
professed  a  willingness  to  stand  in  his  shoes.  The 
fire-eating  Captain  would  most  probably  blow  that 
gentleman's  brains  out  in  the  heat  of  his  first  excite 
ment.  Poor  Jacob,  not  a  very  courageous  man,  was 
almost  beside  himself  with  fear,  when  this  view  of  the 


RETURN  OF  CAPTAIN  ALLEN.          35 

case  was  confidently  asserted.  One  advised  this  course 
of  conduct  on  the  part  of  Jacob,  and  another  advised 
that,  while  all  agreed  that  it  would  on  no  account  be 
safe  for  him  to  fall  in  the  Captain's  way  immediately 
on  his  return.  More  than  a  dozen  people,  friends  of 
Jacob,  were  on  the  alert,  to  give  him  the  earliest  intel 
ligence  of  Captain  Allen's  arrival  in  S ,  that  he 

might  hide  himself  until  the  first  fearful  outbreak  of 
passion  was  over. 

Well,  in  about  two  weeks  the  Captain  returned  with 
his  little  son.  Expectation  was  on  tip-toe.  People's, 
hearts  beat  in  their  mouths.  There  were  some  who 
would  not  have  been  surprised  at  any  startling  occur 
rence  ;  an  apparition  of  the  scarred  sea-dog,  rushing 
along  the  streets,  slashing  his  sword  about  like  a  mad 
man,  would  have  seemed  to  them  nothing  extraordi 
nary,  under  the  circumstances. 

But  expectation  stood  so  long  on  tip-toe  that  it  grew 
tired,  and  came  down  a  few  inches.  Nothing  occurred 
to  arouse  the  quiet  inhabitants.  Captain  Allen  was 
seen  to  enter  his  dwelling  about  two  o'clock  in  the  after 
noon,  and  although  not  less  than  twenty  sharp  pairs 
of  eyes  were  turned  in  that  direction,  and  never  abated 
their  vigilance  until  night  drew  down  her  curtains,  no 
one  got  even  a  glimpse  of  his  person. 

Jacob  Perkins  left  the  town,  and  took  refuge  with  a 
neighbor  living  two  miles  away,  on  the  first  intimation 
of  the  Captain's  return. 

The  next  day  passed,  but  no  one  saw  the  Captain. 
On  the  third  day  a  member  of  the  inquisitorial  com 
mittee,  who  had  his  house  under  constant  observation, 


36  TWENTY   YEARS   AGO,  AND   NOW.      . 

saw  him  drive  out  with  his  son,  and  take  the  road  that 
went  direct  to  the  neighborhood  where  Jacob  Perkins 
lay  concealed  in  the  house  of  a  friend. 

Poor  Jacob  !  None  doubted  but  the  hour  of  retri 
bution  for  him  was  at  hand.  That  he  might  have 
timely  warning,  if  possible,  a  lad  was  sent  out  on  a 
fleet  horse,  who  managed  to  go  by  Captain  Allen's 
chaise  on  the  road.  Pale  with  affright,  the  unhappy 
fugitive  hid  himself  under  a  hay  rick,  and  remained 
there  for  an  hour.  But  the  Captain  passed  through 
without  pause  or  inquiry,  and  in  due  course  of  time 
returned  to  his  home,  having  committed  no  act  in  the 
least  degree  noteable. 

And  so,  as  if  nothing  unusual  had  happened,  he  was 
seen,  day  after  day,  going  about  as  of  old,  with  not  a 
sign  of  change  in  his  deportment  that  any  one  could 
read.  In  a  week,  Jacob  Perkins  returned  to  his  home, 
fully  assured  that  no  harm  was  likely  to  visit  him. 

No  event  touching  Captain  Allen  or  his  family,  wor 
thy  of  record,  transpired  for  several  years.  The  only 
servants  in  the  house  were  negro  slaves,  brought  from 
a  distance,  and  kept  as  much  as  possible  away  from 
others  of  their  class  in  town.  Among  these,  the  boy, 
John,  grew  up.  When  he  was  ten  years  old,  Jacob 
Perkins,  though  in  some  fear,  performed  the  sacred 
duty  promised  to  his  mother  on  that  memorable  morn 
ing,  when  he  looked  upon  her  palet  statuesque  coun 
tenance  for  the  last  time.  A  flush  covered  the  boy's 
face,  as  he  received  the  locket,  and  understood  from 
whence  it  came.  He  stood  for  some  minutes,  wholly 
abstracted,  as  if  under  the  spell  of  some  vivid  memory. 


.  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  CAPTAIN.         37 

Tears  at  length  filled  his  eyes,  and  glistened  on  the 
long  fringed  lashes.  Then  there  was  a  single,  half- 
repressed  sob — and  then,  grasping  the  locket  tightly 
in  his  hand,  he  turned  from  Jacob,  and,  without  a 
word,  walked  hastily  away. 

When  the  boy  was  sixteen,  Captain  Allen  took  him 
to  sea.  From  that  period  for  many  years,  both  of 
them  were  absent  for  at  least  two-thirds  of  the  time.  At 
twenty-five,  John  took  command  of  a  large  merchant 
man,  trading  to  the  South  American  coast,  and  his 
father,  now  worn  down  by  hard  service,  as  well  as  by 

years,  retired  to  his  home  in  S ,  to  close  up 

there,  in  such  repose  of  mind  as  he  could  gain,  the  last 
days  of  his  eventful  life.  He  died  soon  after  by 
apoplexy. 

Prior  to  this  event,  his  son,  the  younger  Captain 
Allen,  had  brought  home  from  Cuba  a  Spanish  woman, 
who  took  the  name  of  his  wife.  Of  her  family,  or 
antecedents,  no  one  in  our  town  knew  anything ;  and 
it  was  questioned  by  many  whether  any  rite  of  marriage 
ha'd  ever  been  celebrated  between  them.  Of  this, 
however,  nothing  certain  was  known.  None  of  the 
best  people,  so  called,  in  S paid  her  the  hospi 
table  compliment  of  a  visit ;  and  she  showed  no  dispo 
sition  to  intrude  herself  upon  them.  And  so  they 
stood  towards  each  other  as  strangers ;  and  the  Allen 
house  remained,  as  from  the  beginning,  to  most  people 
a  terra  incognita. 

Neither  Captain  Allen  nor  his  Spanish  consort,  to 
whom  no  children  were  born,  as  they  advanced  in 
years,  "grew  old  gracefully,"  Both  had  repulsive 


38  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,    AND   NOW. 

features,  which  were  strongly  marked  by  passion  and 
sensuality.  During  the  last  two  years  of  his  life  I  was 
frequently  called  to  see  him,  and  prescribe  for  his 
enemy,  the  gout,  by  which  he  was  sorely  afflicted. 
Mrs.  Allen  also  required  treatment.  Her  nervous 
system  was  disordered ;  and,  on  closer  observation,  I  de 
tected  signs  of  a  vagrant,  imagination,  leading  her  away 
into  states  verging  upon  insanity.  She  was  fretful 
and  ill-tempered;  and  rarely  spoke  to  the  Captain 
except  complainingly,  or  in  anger.  The  visits  I  made 
to  the  Allen  house,  during  the  lifetime  of  Captain 
Allen,  were  among  the  most  unsatisfactory  of  all  my 
professional  calls.  I  think,  from  signs  which  met  my 
eyes,  that  something  more  than  bitter  words  passed 
occasionally  between  the  ill-matched  couple. 

Late  in  the  day,  nearly  five  years  anterior  to  the  time 
of  which  I  am  now  writing,  I  was  summoned  in  haste  to 
visit  Captain  Allen.  I  found  him  lying  on  a  bed  in 
the  north-west  chamber,  where  he  usually  slept,  in  a 
state  of  insensibility.  Mrs.  Allen  received  me  at  the 
door  of  the  chamber  with  a  frightened  countenance. 
On  inquiry  as  to  the  cause  of  his  condition,  she  in 
formed  me  that  he  had  gone  to  his  own  room  about  an 
hour  before,  a  little  the  worse  for  a  bottle  of  wine ; 
and  that  she  had  heard  nothing  more  from  him,  until 
she  was  startled  by  a  loud,  jarring  noise  in  his  cham 
ber.  On  running  up  stairs,  she  found  him  lying  upon 
the  floor,  insensible. 

I  looked  at  her  steadily,  as  she  gave  me  this  relation, 
but  could  not  hold  her  eyes  in  mine.  She  seemed 
more  uneasy  than  troubled.  There  was  a  contused 


SUSPICIOUS  DEATH  OF  CAPTAIN  ALLEN.     39 

wound  just  below  the  right  temple,  which  covered, 
with  its  livid  stain,  a  portion  of  the  cheek.  A  cursory 
examination  satisfied  me  that,  whatever  might  be  the 
cause  of  his  fall,  congestion  of  the  brain  had  occurred, 
and  that  but  few  chances  for  life  remained.  So  I  in 
formed  Mrs.  Allen.  At  the  words,  I  could  see  a 
shudder  run  through  her  frame,  and  an  expression  of 
something  like  terror  sweep  over  her  face. 

"His  father  died  of  apoplexy,"  said  she  in  a  hoarse 
whisper,  looking  at  me  with  a  side-long,  almost  stealthy 
glance,  not  full  and  open-eyed. 

"  This  is  something  more  than  apoplexy,"  I  re 
marked  ;  still  observing  her  closely. 

"  The  fall  may  have  injured  him,"  she  suggested. 

"  The  blow  on  his  temple  has  done  the  fearful  work," 
said  I. 

There  was  a  perceptible  start,  and  another  look  of 
fear — almost  terror. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  doctor,"  she  said,  rousing  her 
self,  and  speaking  half  imperatively,  "  do  something  ! 
Don't  stand  speculating  about  the  cause  ;  but  do  some 
thing  if  you  have  any  skill." 

Thus  prompted,  I  set  myself  to  work,  in  good  ear 
nest,  with  my  patient.  The  result  was  in  no  way 
flattering  to  my  skill,  for  he  passed  to  his  account  in 
less  than  an  hour,  dying  without  a  sign. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  wild  screams  which  rang 
awfully  through  the  old  mansion,  when  it  was  an 
nounced  to  Mrs.  Allen  that  the  Captain  was  dead. 
She  flung  herself  upon  his  body,  tore  her  hair,  and 
committed  other  extravagances.  All  the  slumbering 


40  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND  NOW. 

passions  of  her  undisciplined  nature  seemed  quickened 
into  sudden  life,  overmastering  her  in  their  strong  ex 
citement.  So  it  would  have  seemed  to  a  less  suspi 
cious  observer ;  but  I  thought  that  I  could  detect  the 
overacting  of  pretence.  I  may  have  done  her  wrong  ; 
but  the  impression  still  remains.  At  the  funeral,  this 
extravagant  role  of  grief  was  re-enacted,  and  the  im 
pression  was  left  on  many  minds  that  she  was  half 
mad  with  grief. 

Occasionally,  after  this  event,  I  was  summoned  to 
the  Allen  House  to  see  its  unhappy  mistress.  I  say 
unhappy,  for  no  human  being  ever  had  a  face  written 
all  over  with  the  characters  you  might  read  in  hers, 
that  was  not  miserable.  I  used  to  study  it,  some 
times,  to  see  if  I  could  get  anything  like  a  true  reve 
lation  of  her  inner  life.  The  sudden  lighting  up  of 
her  countenance  at  times,  as  you  observed  its  rapidly 
varying  expression,  made  you  almost  shudder,  for  the 
gleam  which  shot  across  it  looked  like  a  reflection 
from  hell.  I  know  no  other  word  to  express  what  I 
mean.  Remorse,  at  times,  I  could  plainly  read. 

One  thing  I  soon  noticed;  the  room  in  which  Cap 
tain  Allen  died — the  north-west  chamber  before  men 
tioned — remained  shut  up ;  and  an  old  servant  told 
me,  years  afterwards,  that  Mrs.  Allen  had  never  been 
inside  of  it  since  the  fatal  day  on  which  I  attended 
him  in  his  last  moments. 

At  the  time  when  this  story  opens  the  old  lady  was 
verging  on  to  sixty.  The  five  years  which  had  passed 
since  she  was  left  alone  had  bent  her  form  consider 
ably,  and  the  diseased  state  of  mind  which  I  noticed 


INSANITY   OF  MRS.  ALLEN.  41 

when  first  called  in  to  visit  the  family  as  a  physician, 
was  now  but  a  little  way  removed  from  insanity.  She 
was  haunted  by  many  strange  hallucinations ;  and  the 
old  servant  above  alluded  to,  informed  me,  that  she 
was  required  to  sleep  in  the  room  with  her  mistress,  as 
she  never  would  be  alone  after  dark.  Often,  through 
the  night,  she  would  start  up  in  terror,  her  diseased 
imagination  building  up  terrible  phantoms  in  the  land 
of  dreams,  alarming  the  house  with  her  cries. 

I  rarely  visited  her  that  I  did  not  see  new  evidences 
of  waning  reason.  In  the  beginning  I  was  fearful 
that  she  might  do  some  violence  to  herself  or  her  ser 
vants,  but  her  insanity  began  to  assume  a  less  excita 
ble  form  ;  and  at  last  she  sank  into  a  condition  of  tor 
por,  both  of  mind  and  body,  from  which  I  saw  little 
prospect  of  her  ever  rising. 

"It  is  well,"  I  said  to  myself.  "Life  had  better 
wane  slowly  away  than  to  go  out  in  lurid  gleams  liko 
the  flashes  of  a  dying  volcano." 


42  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 


.      CHAPTER    V. 

AND  now,  reader,  after  this  long  digression,  you 
can  understand  my  surprise  at  seeing  broad  gleams  of 
light  reaching  out  into  the  darkness  from  the  windows 
of  that  north-west  chamber,  as  I  breasted  the  storm  on 
my  way  to  visit  the  sick  child  of  Mary  Jones.  No 
wonder  that  I  stood  still  and  looked  up  at  those  win 
dows,  though  the  rain  beat  into  my  face,  half  blinding 
me.  The  shutters  were  thrown  open,  and  the  curtains 
drawn  partly  aside.  I  plainly  saw  shadows  on  the 
ceiling  and  walls  as  of  persons  moving  about  the  room. 
Did  my  eyes  deceive  me?  Was  not  that  the  figure  of 
a  young  girl  that  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  window 
trying  to  pierce  with  her  eyes  the  thick  veil  of  night  ? 
I  was  still  in  doubt  when  the  figure  turned  away,  and 
only  gave  me  a  shadow  on  the  wall. 

I  lingered  in  front  of  the  old  house  for  some  minutes, 
but  gaining  no  intelligence  of  what  was  passing  within, 
I  keptjon  my  way  to  the  humbler  dwelling  of  Mary 
Jones.  I  found  her  child  quite  ill,  and  needing  atten 
tion.  After  doing  what,  in  my  judgment,  the  case  re 
quired,  I  turned  my  steps  towards  the  house  of  Mrs. 
Wallingford  to  look  into  the  case  of  her  son  Henry, 
who,  acording  to  her  account,  was  in  a  very  unhappy 
condition. 


MATERNAL   DISTRESS.  43 

I  went  a  little  out  of  my  way  so  as  to  go  past  the 
Allen  House  again.  As  I  approached,  my.  eyes  were 
directed  to  the  chamber  windows  at  the  north-west 
corner,  and  while  yet  some  distance  away,  as  the  old 
elms  tossed  their  great  limbs  about  in  struggling  with 
the  storm,  I  saw  glancing  out  between  them  the  same 
cheery  light  that  met  my  astonished  gaze  a  little  while 
before.  As  then,  I  saw  shadows  moving  on  the  walls, 
and  once  the  same  slender,  graceful  figure — evidently 
that  of  a  young  girl — came  to  the  window  and  tried  to 
look  out  into  the  deep  darkness. 

As  there  was  nothing  to  be  gained  by  standing  there 
in  the  drenching  storm,  I  moved  onward,  taking  the 
way  to  Mrs.  Wallingford's  dwelling.  I  had  scarcely 
touched  the  knocker  when  the  door  was  opened,  and 
by  Mrs..Wallirigford  herself. 

"  Oh,  Doctor,  I'm  so  glad  you've  come  !"  she  said  in 
a  low,  troubled  voice. 

I  stepped  in  out  of  the  rain,  gave  her  my  dripping 
umbrella,  and  laid  off  my  overcoat. 

"How  is  Henry  now?"  I  asked. 

She  put  her  finger  to  her  lip,  and  said,  in  a  whisper, 

"  Just  the  same,  Doctor — just  the  same.  Listen  ! 
Don't  you  hear  him  walking  the  floor  overhead?  I've 
tried  to  get  him  to  take  a  cup  of  tea,  but  he  won't 
touch  any  thing.  All  I  can  get  out  of  him  is — '  Mo 
ther — dear  mother — leave  me  to  myself.  I  shall  come 
right  again.  Only  leave  me  to  myself  now.'  But, 
how  can  I  let  him  go  on  in  this  way?  Oh,  Doctor,  I 
am  almost  beside  myself !  What  can  it  all  mean  ?  Some 
thing  dreadful  has  happened." 


44  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,  AND  NOW. 

I  sat  listening  and  reflecting  for  something  like  ten 
minutes.  Steadily,  from  one  side  the  room  overhead 
to  the  other,  went  the  noise  of  feet ;  now  slowly,  now 
with  a  quicker  motion :  and  now  with  a  sudden  tramp, 
that  sent  the  listener's  blood  with  a  start  along  its 
courses. 

"Won't  you  see  him,  doctor?" 

I  did  not  answer  at  once,  for  I  was  in  the  dark  as 
to  what  was  best  to  be  done.  If  I  had  known  the 
origin  of  his  trouble,  I  could  have  acted  understand- 
ingly.  As  it  was,  any  intrusion  upon  the  young  man 
might  do  harm  rather  than  good. 

"  He  has  asked  to  be  let  alone,"  I  replied,  "  and  it 
may  be  best  to  let  him  alone.  He  says  that  he  will 
come  out  right.  Give  him  a  little  more  time.  Wait, 
at  least,  until  to-morrow.  Then,  if  there  is  no  change, 
I  will  see  him." 

Still  the  mother  urged.     At  last  I  said — 

"  Go  to  your  son.  Suggest  to  him  a  visit  from  me, 
and  mark  the  effect." 

I  listened  as  she  went  up  stairs.  On  entering  his 
room,  I  noticed  that  he  ceased  walking.  Soon  came 
to  my  ears  the  murmur  of  voices,  which  rose  to  a  sud 
den  loudness  on  his  part,  and  I  distinctly  heard  the 
words : 

"  Mother  !  you  will  drive  me  mad  !  If  you  talk  of 
that,  I  will  go  from  the  house.  I  must  be  left  alone  !" 

Then  all  was  silent.  Soon  Mrs.  Wallingford  came 
down.  She  looked  even  more  distressed  than  when 
she  left  the  room. 

"  I'm  afraid  it  might  do  harm,"  she  said  doubtingly. 


MATRIMONIAL   CONVERSATION.  45 

"So  am  I.  It  will,  I  am  sure,  be  best  to  let  him 
have  his  way  for  the  present.  Something  has  dis 
turbed  him  fearfully ;  but  he  is  struggling  hard  for  the 
mastery  over  himself,  and  you  may  be  sure,  madam, 
that  he  will  gain  it.  Your  son  is  a  young  man  of  no 
light  stamp  of  character ;  and  he  will  come  out  of  this 
ordeal,  as  gold  from  the  crucible." 

"  You  think  so,  Doctor  ?" 

She  looked  at  me  with  a  hopeful  light  in  her 
troubled  countenance. 

"I  do,  verily.     So  let  your  heart  dwell  in  peace.'* 

I  was  anxious  to  get  back  to  my  good  Constance, 
and  so,  after  a  few  more  encouraging  words  for  Mrs. 
Wallingford,  I  tried  the  storm  again,  and  went  through 
its  shivering  gusts,  to  my  own  home.  There  had  been 
no  calls  in  my  absence,  and  so  the  prospect  looked 
fair  for  a  quiet  evening — -just  what  I  wanted  ;  for  the 
strange  condition  of  Henry  Wallingford,  and  the  sin 
gular  circumstance  connected  with  the  old  Allen 
House,  were  things  to  be  conned  over  with  that  second 
self,  towards  whom  all  thought  turned  and  all  interest 
converged  as  to  a  centre. 

After  exchanging  wet  outer  garments  and  boots,  for 
dressing  gown  and  slippers ;  and  darkness  and  storm 
for  a  pleasant  fireside ;  my  thoughts  turned  to  the 
north-west  chamber  of  the  Allen  House,  and  I  said — 

"  I  have  seen  something  to-night  that  puzzled  me." 

"What  is  that?"  inquired  my  wife,  turning  her 
mild  eyes  upon  me. 

"  You  know  the  room  in  which  old  Captain  Allen 
died  ?" 


46  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND   NOW. 

"  Yes.'7 

"  The  chamber  on  the  north-west  corner,  which,  as 
far  as  we  know,  has  been  shut  up  ever  since  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  remember  your  suspicion  as  to  foul  play  on 
the  part  of  Mrs.  Allen,  who,  it  is  believed,  has  never 
visited  the  apartment  since  the  Captain's  death." 

"Well,  you  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that  the  shut 
ters  are  unclosed,  and  lights  burning  in  that  chamber." 

"Now!" 

"Yes — or  at  least  half  an  hour  ago." 

"  That  is  remarkable." 

My  wife  looked  puzzled. 

"  And  more  remarkable  still — I  saw  shadows  moving 
on  the  walls,  as  of  two  or  three  persons  in  the  room." 

1*  Something  unusual  has  happened,"  said  my  wife. 
"  Perhaps  Mrs.  Allen  is  dead." 

This  thought  had  not  occurred  to  me.  I  turned  it 
over  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  remarked, 

"  Hardly  probable — for,  in  that  case,  I  would  have 
been  summoned.  No ;  it  strikes  me  that  some 
strangers  are  in  the  house ;  for  I  am  certain  that  I 
saw  a  young  girl  come  to  the  window  and  press  her 
face  close  up  to  one  of  the  panes,  as  if  trying  to  pene 
trate  the  darkness. 

"  Singular  !"  said  my  wife,  as  if  speaking  to  her 
self.  "  Now,  that  explains,  in  part,  something  that  I 
couldn't  just  make  out  yesterday.  I  -was  late  in 
getting  home  from  Aunt  Elder's  you  know.  Well,  as 
I  came  in  view  of  that  old  house,  I  thought  I  saw  a 
girl  standing  by  the  gate.  An  appearance  so  unusual, 
caused  me  to  strain  my  eyes  to  make  out  the  figure, 


DELIA  FLOYD.  47 

but  the  twilight  had  fallen  too  deeply.  While  I  still 
looked,  the  form  disappeared ;  but,  through  an  opening 
in  the  shrubbery,  I  caught  another  glimpse  of  it,  as  it 
vanished  in  the  portico.  I  was  going  to  speak  of  the 
incident,  but  other  matters  pushed  it,  till  now,  from  my 
thoughts  when  you  were  at  home." 

"  Then  my  eyes  did  not  deceive  me,"  said  I;  "your 
story  corroborates  mine.  There  is  a  young  lady  in  the 
Allen  House.  But  who  is  she  ?  That  is  the  question." 

As  we  could  not  get  beyond  this  question,  we  left  the 
riddle  for  time  to  solve,  and  turned  next  to  the  singu 
lar  state  of  mind  into  which  young  Henry  Wallingford 
had  fallen. 

"Well,"  said  my  wife,  speaking  with  some  empha 
sis,  after  I  had  told  her  of  the  case,  "  I  never  im 
agined  that  he  cared  so  much  for  the  girl !" 

"What  girl?"  I  inquired. 

"  Why,  Delia  Floyd — the  silly  fool !  if  I  must  speak 
so  strongly." 

"  Then  he  is  really  in  love  with  Squire  Eloyd's 
daughter?" 

"It  looks  like  it,  if  he's  taking  on  as  his  mother 
says,"  answered  my  wife,  with  considerable  feeling. 
"  And  Delia  will  rue  the  day  she  turned  from  as  true 
a  man  as  Henry  Wallingford." 

"Bless  me,  Constance  !  you've  got  deeper  into  this 
matter,  than  either  his  mother  or  me.  Who  has  been 
initiating  you  into  the  love  secrets  of  S ?" 

"  This  affair,"  returned  my  wife,  "  has  not  passed 
into  town  talk,  and  will,  I  trust,  be  kept  sacred  by 
those  who  know  the  facts.  I  learned  them  from  Mrs. 


48  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND   NOW. 

Dean,  the  sister  of  Mrs.  Floyd.  The  case  stands  thus  : 
Henry  is  peculiar,  shy,  reserved,  and  rather  silent. 
He  goes  but  little  into  company,  and  has  not  the  tak 
ing  way  with  girls  that  renders  some  young  men  so 
popular.  But  his  qualities  are  all  of  the  sterling  kind 
— such  as  wear  well,  and  grow  brighter  with  usage. 
For  more  than  a  year  past,  he  has  shown  a  decided 
preference  for  Delia  Floyd,  and  she  has  encouraged 
his  attentions.  Indeed,  so  far  as  I  can  learn  from 
Mrs.  Dean,  the  heart  of  her  niece  was  deeply  inter 
ested.  But  a  lover  of  higher  pretensions  came, 
dazzling  her  mind  with  a  more  brilliant  future." 

"Who?"  I  inquired. 

"  That  dashing  young  fellow  from  New  York,  Judge 
Bigelow's  nephew." 

"  Not  Ralph  Dewey  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Foolish  girl,  to  throw  away  a  man  for  such  an 
effigy !  It  will  be  a  dark  day  that  sees  her  wedded  to 
him.  But  I  will  not  believe  in  the  possibility  of  such 
an  event." 

"  Well,  to  go  on  with  my  story,"  resumed  Constance. 
"Last  evening,  seeing,  I  suppose,  that  a  dangerous 
rival  was  intruding,  Henry  made  suit  for  the  hand '  of 
Delia,  and  was  rejected." 

"I understand  the  case  better  now,"  said  I,  speak 
ing  from  a  professional  point  of  view. 

"  Poor  young  man  !  I  did  not  suppose  it  was  in 
him  to  love  any  woman  after  that  fashion,"  remarked 
Constance. 

"  Your  men  of  reserved  exterior  have  often  great 


MORALIZING.  49 

depths  of  feeling,"  I  remarked.  "  Usually  women  are 
not  drawn  towards  them  ;  because  they  are  attracted 
most  readily  by  what  meets  the  eye.  If  they  would 
look  deeper,  they  would  commit  fewer  mistakes,  like 
that  which  Delia  Floyd  has  just  committed." 
4 


50  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

DELIA  FLOYD  was  a  girl  of  more  than  ordinary 
attractions,  and  it  is  not  surprising  that  young  Walling- 
ford  was  drawn,  fascinated,  within  the  charmed  circle 
of  her  influence.  She  was,  by  no  means,  the  weak, 
vain,  beautiful  young  woman,  that  the  brief  allu 
sion  I  have  made  to  her  might  naturally  lead  the 
reader  to  infer.  I  had  possessed  good  opportunities 
for  observing  her,  for  our  families  were  intimate,  and 
she  was  frequently  at  our  house.  Her  father  had 
given  her  a  good  education — not  showy ;  but  of  the 
solid  kind.  She  was  fond  of  books,  and  better  read,  I 
think,  in  the  literature  of  the  day,  than  any  other 

young  lady  in  S .     Her  conversational  powers 

were  of  a  high  order.  Good  sense,  I  had  always  given 
her  credit  for  possessing ;  and  I  believed  her  capable  of 
reading  character  correctly.  She  was  the  last  one  I 
should  have  regarded  as  being  in  danger  of  losing  a 
heart  to  Ralph  Dewey. 

In  person,  Delia  was  rather  below  than  above  the 
middle  stature.  Her  hair  was  of  a  dark  brown,  and  so 
were  her  eyes— the  latter  large  and  liquid.  Her  com 
plexion  was  fresh,  almost  ruddy,  and  her  countenance 
animated,  and  quick  to  register  every  play  of  feeling. 


SQUIRE   FLOYD.  51 

In  manner,  she  was  exceedingly  agreeable,  and  had 
the  happy  art  of  putting  even  strangers  at  ease.  It 
was  no  matter  of  wonder  to  me,  as  I  said  before,  that 
Henry  Wallingford  should  fall  in  love  with  Delia  Floyd. 
But  I  did  wonder,  most  profoundly,  when  I  became 
fully  assured,  that  she  had,  for  a  mere  flash  man,  such 
as  Ralph  Dewey  seemed  to  me,  turned  herself  away 
from  Henry  Wallingford. 

But  women  are  enigmas  to  most  of  us — I  don't  in 
clude  you,  dear  Constance ! — and  every  now  and  then 
puzzle  us  by  acts  so  strangely  out  of  keeping  with  all 
that  we  had  predicated  of  them,  as  to  leave  no  expla 
nation  within  our  reach,  save  that  of  evil  fascination, 
or  temporary  loss  of  reason.  We  see  their  feet  often 
turning  aside  into  ways  that  we  know  lead  to  wretched 
ness,  and  onward  they  move  persistently,  heeding 
neither  the  voice  of  love,  warning,  nor  reproach. 
They  hope  all  things,  believe  all  things,  trust  all 
things,  and  make  shipwreck  on  the  breakers  that  all 
eyes  but  their  own  see  leaping  and  foaming  in  their 
course.  Yes,  woman  is  truly  an  enigma ! 

Squire  Floyd  was  a  plain,  upright  man,  in  mode 
rately  good  circumstances.  He  owned  a  water  power 
on  the  stream  that  ran  near  our  town,  and  had  built 
himself  a  cotton  mill,  which  was  yielding  him  a  good 
annual  income.  But  he  was  far  from  being  rich,  and 
had  the  good  sense  not  to  assume  a  style  of  living 
beyond  his  means. 

Henry  Wallingford  was  the  son  of  an  old  friend  of 
Squire  Floyd's.  The  elder  Mr.  Wallingford  was  not 
a  man  of  the  Squire's  caution  and  prudence.  He  was 


52  TWENTY   YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

always  making  mistakes  in  matters  of  business,  and 
never  succeeded  well  in  any  thing.  He  died  when  his 
son  was  about  eighteen  years  of  age.  Henry  was  at 
that  time  studying  law  with  Judge  Bigelow.  As,  in 
the  settlement  of  his  father's  estate,  it  was  found  to 
be  wholly  insolvent,  Henry,  unwilling  to  be  depend 
ent  on  his  mother,  who  had  a  small  income  in  her  own 
right,  gave  notice  to  the  Judge  that  he  was  about  to 
leave  his  office.  Now,  the  Judge  was  a  man  of  pene 
tration,  and  had  already  discovered  in  the  quiet,  re 
served  young  man,  just  the  qualities  needed  to  give 
success  in  the  practice  of  law.  He  looked  calmly  at 
his  student  for  some  moments  after  receiving  this 
announcement,  conning  over  his  face,  which  by  no 
means  gave  indications  of  a  happy  state  of  mind. 

"You  think  you  can  find  a  better  preceptor?."  said 
the  Judge,  at  last,  in  his  calm  way. 

"No,  sir!  no!"  answered  Henry,  quickly.  "Not 
in  all  this  town,  nor  out  of  it,  either.  It  is  not  that, 
Judge  Bigelow." 

"  Then  you  don't  fancy  the  law  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  there  is  no  other  calling  in  life 
that  presents  to  my  mind  any  thing  attractive,"  replied 
Henry,  in  a  tone  of  despondency  that  did  not  escape 
the  Judge. 

"  Well,  if  that  is  the  case,  why  not  keep  on  ?  You 
are  getting  along  bravely." 

"I  must  support  myself,  sir — must  do  something 
besides  sitting  here  and  reading  law  books." 

"Ah,  yes,  I  see."  The  Judge  spoke  to  himself,  as 
if  light  had  broken  into  his  mind.  "Well,  Henry," 


A  SALARIED   LAW   STUDENT.  53 

he  added,  looking  at  the  young  man,  "  what  do  you 
propose  doing?" 

"  I  have  hands  and  health,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Something  more  than  hands  and  health  are  re 
quired  in  this  world.  What  can  you  do  ?  " 

"I  can  work  on  a  farm,  if  nothing  better  offers. 
Or,  may  be,  I  can  get  a  place  in  some  store." 

"  There's  good  stuff  in  the  lad,"  said  Judge  Bigelow 
to  himself.  Then  speaking  aloud — 

"  I'll  think  this  matter  over  for  you,  Henry.  Let 
it  rest  for  a  day  or  two.  The  law  is  your  proper  call 
ing,  and  you  must  not  give  it  up,  if  you  can  be  sus 
tained  in  it." 

On  that  yery  day,  Judge  Bigelow  saw  Squire  Floyd, 
and  talked  the  matter  over  with  him.  They  had  but 
one  sentiment  in  the  matter,-  and  that  was  favorable 
to  Henry's  remaining  where  he  was. 

"  Can  he  be  of  any  service  to  you,  in  your  office, 
Judge — such  as  copying  deeds  and  papers,  hunting 
up  cases,  and  the  like?"  asked  the  Squire. 

"  Yes,  he  can  be  of  service  to  me  in  that  way ;  and 
is  of 'service  now." 

"  You  can  afford  to  pay  him  something  ?"  suggested 
Squire  Floyd. 

"  It  is  usual,"  replied  the  Judge,  "  to  get  this  kind 
of  service  in  return  for  instruction  and  office  privi 
leges." 

"  I  know  ;  but  this  case  is  peculiar.  The  death  of 
Henry's  father  has  left  him  without  a  support,  and  he 
is  too  independent  to  burden  his  mother.  Unless  he 


54 

can  earn  something,  therefore,  he  must  abandon  the 
law." 

"I  understand  that,  Squire,  and  have  already  deci 
ded  to  compensate  him,"  said  the  Judge.  "But  what 
I  can  offer  will  not  be  enough." 

"  How  much  can  you  offer  ?" 

"Not  over  a  hundred  dollars  for  the  first  year." 

"  Call  it  two  hundred,  Judge,"  was  the  ready  an 
swer. 

The  two  men  looked  for  a  moment  into  each  other's 
faces. 

"  His  father  and  I  were  friends  from  boyhood,"  said 
Squire  Floyd.  "  He  was  a  warm-hearted  man ;  but 
always  making  mistakes.  He  would  have  ruined  me 
two  or  three  times  over,  if  I  had  been  weak  enough  to 
enter  into  his  plans,  or  to  yield  to  his  importunities  in 
the  way  of  risks  and  securities.  It  often  went  hard 
for  me  to  refuse  him ;  but  duty  to  those  dependent  on 
me  was  stronger  than  friendship.  But  I  can  spare  a 
hundred  dollars  for  his  son,  and  will  do  it  cheerfully. 
Only,  I  must  not  be  known  in  the  matter  ;  for  it  would 
lay  on  Henry's  mind  a  weight  of  obligation,  not 
pleasant  for  one  of  his  sensitive  disposition  to  bear." 

"I  see,  Squire,"  answered  Judge  Bigelow  to  this; 
"  but  then  it  won't  place  me  in  the  right  position.  I 
shall  receive  credit  for  your  benevolence." 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself  on  that  score,"  answered 
the  Squire,  laughing.  "It  may  be  that  I  shall  want 
some  law  business  done — though  heaven  forbid  !  In 
that  case,  I  will  call  on  you,  and  you  can  let  Henry 


HENRY  A   PARTNER.  55 

do  the  work.  Thus  the  equilibrium  of  benefits  will  be 
restored.  Let  the  salary  be  two  hundred." 

And  so  this  matter  being  settled,  Henry  Walling- 
ford  remained  in  the  office  of  Judge  Bigelow.  The 
fact  of  being  salaried  by  the  Judge,  stimulated  him 
to  new  efforts,  and  made  him  forward  to  relieve  his 
kind  preceptor  of  all  duties  within  the  range  of  his 
ability.  There  came,  during  the  next  year,  an  unu 
sually  large  amount  of  office  practice — preparing  deeds, 
making  searches,  and  drawing  up  papers  of  various 
kinds.  In  doing  this  work,  Henry  was  rapid  and  re 
liable.  So,  when  Squire  Floyd  tendered  his  propor 
tion  of  the  young  man's  salary  to  his  neighbor,  the 
Judge  declined  receiving  it.  The  Squire  urged ;  but 
the  Judge  said — 

"  No ;  Henry  has  earned  his  salary,  and  I  must  pay 
it,  in  simple  justice.  I  did  not  think  there  was  so 
much  in  him.  Business  has  increased,  and  without 
so  valuable  an  assistant,  I  could  not  get  along." 

So  the  way  had  opened  before  Henry  Wallingford, 
and  he  was  on  the  road  to  a  successful  manhood.  At 
the  time  of  his  introduction  to  the  reader,  he  was  in 
his  twenty-third  year.  On  attaining  his  majority,  he 
had  become  so  indispensable  to  Judge  Bigelow,  who 
had  the  largest  practice  in  the  county,  that  no  course 
was  left  for  him  but  to  offer  the  young  man  a  share  in 
his  business.  It  was  accepted ;  and  the  name  of  Henry 
Wallingford  was  thenceforth  displayed  in  gilt  letters, 
in  the  office  window  of  his  preceptor. 

From  that  time,  his  mind  never  rested  with  any 
thing  like  care  or  anxiety  on  the  future.  His  daily 


56  TWENTY  YEAKS   AGO,    AND   NOW. 

life  consisted  in  an  almost  absorbed  devotion  to  his  pro 
fessional  duties,  which  grewsteadily  on  his  hands.  His 
affection  was  in  them,  and  so  the  balance  of  his  mind  was 
fully  sustained.  Ah,  if  we  could  all  thus  rest,  without 
anxiety,  on  the  right  performance  of  our  allotted  work ! 
If  we  would  be  content  to  wait  patiently  for  that  suc 
cess  which  comes  as  the  orderly  result  of  well-doing  in 
our  business,  trades,  or  professions,  what  a  different 
adjustment  would  there  be  in  our  social  condition  and 
relations !  There  would  not  be  all  around  us  so  many 
eager,  care-worn  faces — so  many  heads  bowed  with 
anxious  thought — so  many  shoulders  bent  with  bur 
dens,  destined,  sooner  or  later,  to  prove  too  great  for 
the  strength  which  now  sustains  them.  But  how  few, 
like  Henry  Wallingford,  enter  with  anything  like 
pleasure  into  their  work !  It  is,  in  most  cases,  held  as 
drudgery,  and  regarded  only  as  the  means  to  cherished 
ends  in  life  wholly  removed  from  the  calling  itself. 
Impatience  comes  as  a  natural  result.  The  hand 
reaches  forth  to  pluck  the  growing  fruit  ere  it  is  half 
ripened.  No  wonder  that  its  taste  is  bitter  to  so  many 
thousands.  No  wonder  that  true  success  comes  to  so 
small  a  number — that  to  so  many  life  proves  but  a 
miserable  failure. 


MORNING   AFTER   THE   STORM.  57 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  morning  which  broke  after  that  night  of  storm 
was  serene  and  beautiful.  The  air  had  a  crystal  clear 
ness,  and  as  you  looked  away  up  into  the  cloudless 
azure,  it  seemed. as  if  the  eye  could  penetrate  to  an 
immeasurable  distance.  The  act  of  breathing  was  a 
luxury.  You  drew  in  draught  after  draught  of  the 
rich  air,  feeling,  with  every  inhalation,  that  a  new  vi 
tality  was  absorbed  through  the  lungs,  giving  to  the 
heart  a  nobler  beat,  and  to  the  brain  a  fresh  activity. 
With  what  a  different  feeling  did  I  take  up  my  round 
of  duties  for  the  day!  Yesterday  I  went  creeping 
forth  like  a  reluctant  school  boy  ;  to-day,  with  an  up 
lifted  countenance  and  a  willing  step. 

Having  a  few  near  calls  to  make,  I  did  not  order  my 
horse,  as  both  health  and  inclination  were  better  served 
by  walking.  Soon  after  breakfast  I  started  out,  and 
was  going  in  the  direction  of  Judge  Bigelow's  office, 
when,  hearing  a  step  behind  me  that  had  in  it  a  fa 
miliar  sound,  I  turned  to  find  myself  face  to  face  with 
Henry  Wallingford  !  He  could  hardly  have  failed  to 
see  the  look  of  surprise  in  my  face. 

"  Good  morning,  Henry,"  I  said,  giving  him  my 
hand,  and  trying  to  speak  with  that  cheerful  interest 


58  TWENTY  TEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

in  the  young  man  which  I  had  always  endeavored  to 
show. 

He  smiled  in  his  usual  quiet  way  as  he  took  my  hand 
and  said  in  return, 

"  Good-morning,  Doctor." 

"You  were  not  out,  I  believe,  yesterday,"  I  re 
marked,  as  we  moved  on  together. 

"I  didn't  feel  very  well,"  he  answered,  in  a  voice 
pitched  to  a  lower  key  than  usual ;  "  and,  the  day 
being  a  stormy  one,  I  shut  myself  up  at  home." 

"  Ah,"  said  I,  in  a  cheerful  way,  "  you  lawyers  have 
the  advantage  of  us  knights  of  the  pill  box  and  lancet. 
.  Rain  or  shine,  sick  or  well,  we  must  travel  round  our 
parishf" 

"All  have  their  share  of  the  good  as  well  as  the 
evil  things  of  life,"  he  replied,  a  little  soberly. 
"  Doctors  and  lawyers  included." 

I  did  not  observe  any  marked  change  in  the  young 
man,  except  that  he  was  paler,  and  had  a  different 
look  out  of  his  eyes  from  any  that  I  had  hitherto 
noticed ;  a  more  matured  look,  which  not  only  indi 
cated  deeper  feeling,  but  gave  signs  of  will  and  endu 
rance.  I  carried  that  new  expression  away  with  me 
as  we  parted  at  the  door  of  his  office,  and  studied  it 
as  a  new  revelation  of  the  man.  It  was  very  certain 
that  profounder  depths  had  been  opened  in  his  nature 
— opened  to  his  own  consciousness — than  had  ever 
seen  the  light  before.  That  he  was  more  a  man  than 
he  had  ever  been,  and  more  worthy  to  be  mated  with 
a  true  woman.  Up  to  this  time  I  had  thought  of  him 
more  as  a  boy  than  as  a  man,  for  the  years  had  glided 


RALPH   DEWEY.  59 

by  so  quietly  that  bore  him  onward  with  the  rest,  that, 
he  had  not  arisen  in  my  thought  to  the  full  mental 
stature  which  the  word  manhood  includes. 

"Ah,"  said  I,  as -I  walked  on,  "what  a  mistake  in 
Delia  Floyd  !  She  is  just  as  capable  of  high  develop 
ment  as  a  woman  as  he  is  as  a  man.  How  admirably 
would  they  have  mated.  In  him,  self-reliance,  reason, 
judgment,  and  deep  feeling  would  have  found  in  her 
all  the  qualities  they  seek — taste,  perception,  tender 
ness  and  love.  They  would  have  grown  upwards  into 
higher  ideas  of  life,  not  downwards  into  sensualism 
and  mere  worldliness,  like  the  many.  Alas !  This 
mistake  on  her  part  may  ruin  them  both  ;  for  a  man 
of  deep,  reserved  feelings,  who  suffers  a  disappoint 
ment  in  love,  is  often  warped  in  his  appreciation  of 
the  sex,  and  grows  one-sided  in  his  character  as  he  ad 
vances  through  the  cycles  of  life. 

I  had  parted  from  Henry  only  a  few  minutes  when 
I  met  his  rival,  Ralph  Dewey.  Let  me  describe  him. 
In  person  he  was  taller  than  Wallingford,  and  had  the 
easy,  confident  manner  of  one  who  had  seen  the  world, 
as  we  say.  His  face  was  called  handsome ;  but  it  was 
not  a  manly  face — manly  in  that  best  sense  which 
includes  character  and  thought.  The  chin  and  mouth 
were  feeble,  and  the  forehead  narrow,  throwing  the 
small  orbs  close  together.  But  he  had  a  fresh  com 
plexion,  dark,  sprightly  eyes,  and  a  winning  smile. 
His  voice  was  not  very  good,  having  in  it  a  kind  of 
unpleasant  rattle ;  but  he  managed  it  rather  skillfully 
in  conversation,  arid  you  soon  ceased  to  notice  the 
peculiarity. 


60  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND   NOW. 

Ralph  lived  in  New  York,  where  he  had  recently 
been  advanced  to  the  position  of  fourth  partner  in  a 
dry  goods  jobbing  house,  with  a  small  percentage  on 
the  net  profits.  Judging  from  the  air  with  which  he 
spoke  of  his  firm's  operations,  and  his  relation  to  the 
business,  you  might  have  inferred  that  he  was  senior 
instead  of  junior  partner,  and  that  the  whole  weight 
of  the  concern  rested  on  his  shoulders. 

Judge  Bigelow,  a  solid  man,  and  from  professional 
habit  skilled  in  reading  character,  was,  singularly 
enough,  quite  carried  away  with  his  smart  nephew,  and 
really  believed  his  report  of  himself.  Prospectively, 
he  saw  him  a  merchant  prince,  surrounded  by  palatial 
splendors. 

Our  acquaintance  was  as  yet  but  slight,  so  we  only 
nodded  in  passing.  As  we  were  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Squire  Floyd's  pleasant  cottage,  I  was  naturally 
curious,  under  the  circumstances,  to  see  whether  the 
young  man  was  going  to  make  a  visit  at  so  early  an 
hour ;  and  I  managed  to  keep  long  enough  in  sight  to 
have  this  matter  determined.  Ralph  called  at  the 
Squire's,  and  I  saw  him  admitted.  So  I  shook  my 
head  disapprovingly,  and  kept  on  my  way. 

Not  until  late  in  the  afternoon  did  I  find  occasion  to 
go  into  that  part  of  the  town  where  the  old  Allen 
house  was  located,  though  the  image  of  its  gleaming 
north-west  windows  was  frequently  in  my  thought. 
The  surprise  occasioned  by  that  incident  was  in  no  way 
lessened  on  seeing  a  carriage  drive  in  through  the  gate 
way,  and  two  ladies  alight  therefrom  and  enter  the 
house.  Both  were  in  mourning.  I  did  not  see  their 


STRANGE   VISITORS.  61 

faces ;  but,  judging  from  the  dress  and  figure  of  each, 
it  was  evident  that  one  was  past  the  meridian  of  life, 
and  the  other  young.  Still  more  to  my  surprise,  the 
carriage  was  not  built  after  our  New  England  fashion, 
but  looked  heavy,  and  of  a  somewhat  ancient  date.  It 
was  large  and  high,  with  a  single  seat  for  the  driver 
perched  away  up  in  the  air,  and  a  footman's  stand  and 
hangings  behind.  There  was,  moreover,  a  footman  in 
attendance,  who  sprung  to  his  place  after  the  ladies 
had  alighted,  and  rode  off  to  the  stables. 

"Am  I  dreaming?"  said  I  to  myself,  as  I  kept  on 
my  way,  after  witnessing  this  new  incident  in  the  series 
of  strange  events  that  were  half-bewildering  me.  But 
it  was  in  vain  that  I  rubbed  my  eyes ;  I  could  not 
wake  up  to  a  different  reality. 

It  was  late  when  I  got  home  from  my  round  of  calls, 
and  found  tea  awaiting  my  arrival. 

"Any  one  been  here?"  I  asked — my  usual  question. 

"  No  one."  The  answer  pleased  me  for  I  had  many 
things  on  my  mind,  and  I  wished  to  have  a  good  long 
evening  with  my  wife.  Baby  Mary  and  Louis  were 
asleep :  but  we  had  the  sweet,  gentle  face  of  Agnes, 
our  first  born,  to  brighten  the  meal-time.  After  she 
was  in  dream-land,  guarded  by  the  loving  angels  who 
watch  with  children  in  sleep,  and  Constance  was 
through  with  her  household  cares  for  the  evening,  I 
came  into  the  sitting-room  from  my  office,  and  taking 
the  large  rocking-chair,  leaned  my  head  back,  mind 
and  body  enjoying  a  sense  of  rest  and  comfort. 

"You  are  not  the  only  one,"  said  my  wife,  looking 
up  from  t£e  basket  of  work  through  which  she  had 


YKIKS  Afflo  JDO» 


.. 


sa  T 


::  •:  ;-  i    .-:  v  L- 


SICKNESS  AT  THE  ALLKS  HOUSE,  63 

u  Tbe  stories  about  her  reception  of  the  strangers 
do  not  agree.  According  to  one,  the  old  lady  was  all 
resistance  and  indignation  at  this  intrusion  ;  according 
to  another,  she  gave  way,  passively,  as  if  she  were  no 
longer  sole  mistress  of  the  house/' 

Constance  ceased  speaking,  for  there  came  the  usual 
interruption,  to  our  evening  tete-a-tete — the  ringing  of 
my  office  belL 

"  You  are  wanted  up  at  the  Allen  House,  Doctor," 
said  my  boy,  coming  in  from  the  office  a  few  moments 
afterwards. 

"  Who  is  sick  ?"  I  asked. 

"The  old  lady/' 

"  Any  thing  serious  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  sir.  But  I  should  think  there  was 
from  the  way  old  Aunty  looked.  She  says,  come  up 
as  quickly  as  you  can." 

"  Is  she  in  the  office  ?" 

"  No,  sir.  She  just  said  that,  and  then  went  out  in 
a  hurry. 

u  The  plot  thickens,"  said  I,  looking  at  Constance. 

"  Poor  old  lady !"  There  was  a  shade  of  pity  in 
her  tones. 

"  You  have  not  seen  her  for  many  years  T ' 

«No." 

"Poor  old  witch  of  Endor !  were  better  said." 

"  Oil !"  answered  my  wife,  smiling,  "  you  know  that 
the  painter's  idea  of  this  celebrated  individual  has 
been  reversed  by  some,  who  affirm  that  she  was  young 
and  handsome  instead  of  old  and  ugly  like  modern 
witches." 


64  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,  AND   NOW. 

"  I  don't  know  how  that  may  be,  but  if  you  could 
see  Mrs.  Allen,  you  would  say  that  i  hag'  were  a  bet 
ter  term  for  her  than  woman.  If  the  good  grow  beau 
tiful  as  they  grow  old,  the  loving  spirit  shining  like  a 
lamp  through  the  wasted  and  failing  walls  of  flesh,  so 
do  the  evil  grow  ugly  and  repulsive.  Ah,  Constance, 
the  lesson  is  for  all  of  us.  If  we  live  true  lives,  our 
countenances  will  grow  radiant  from  within,  as  we  ad 
vance  in  years ;  if  selfish,  worldly,  discontented  lives, 
they  will  grow  cold,  hard,  and  repulsive." 

I  drew  on  my  boots  and  coat,  and  started  on  my 
visit  to  the  Allen  House.  The  night  was  in  perfect 
contrast  with  the  previous  one.  There  was  no  moon, 
but  e*very  star  shone  with  its  highest  brilliancy,  while 
the  galaxy  threw  its  white  scarf  gracefully  across  the 
sky,  veiling  millions  of  suns  in  their  own  excessive 
brightness.  I  paused  several  times  in  my  walk,  as 
broader  expanses  opened  between  the  great  elms  that 
gave  to  our  town  a  sylvan  beauty,  and  repeated,  with 
a  rapt  feeling  of  awe  and  admiration,  the  opening 
stanza  of  a  familiar  hymn : — 

"  The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 
With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 
And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 
Their  great  Original  proclaim." 

How  the  beauty  and  grandeur  of  nature  move  the 
heart,  as  if  it  recognized  something  of  its  own  in  every 
changing  aspect.  The  sun  and  moon  and  stars — the 
grand  old  mountains  lifting  themselves  upwards  into 
serene  heights — the  limitless  expanse  of  ocean,  girdling 


THE  DOCTOR'S  VISIT.  65 

the  whole  earth — rivers,  valleys,  and  plains — trees, 
flowers,  the  infinite  forms  of  life — to  all  the  soul  gives 
some  response,  as  if  they  were  akin. 

I  half  forgot  my  interest  in  old  Mrs.  Allen,  as  my 
heart  beat  responsive  to  the  pulsings  of  nature,  and 
my  thoughts  flew  upwards  and  away  as  on  the  wings 
of  eagles.  But  my  faithful  feet  had  borne  me  stea 
dily  onwards,  and  I  was  at  the  gate  opening  to  the 
grounds  of  the  Allen  House,  before  I  was  conscious 
of  having  passed  over  half  the  distance  that  lay  be 
tween  that  and  my  home.  I  looked  up,  and  saw  a 
light  in  the  north-west  chamber,  but  the  curtains  were 
down. 

On  entering  the  house,  I  was  shown  by  the  servant 
who  admitted  me,  into  the  small  office  or  reception 
room  opening  from  the  hall.  I  had  scarcely  seated  my 
self,  when  a  tall  woman,  dressed  in  black,  came  in,  and 
said,  with  a  graceful,  but  rather  stately  manner — 

"  The  Doctor,  I  believe  ?  " 

How  familiar  the  voice  sounded !  And  yet  I  did 
not  recognise  it  as  the  voice  of  any  one  whom  I  had 
known,  but  rather  as  a  voice  heard  in  dreams.  Nor 
was  the  calm,  dignified  countenance  on  which  my  eyes 
rested,  strange  in  every  lineament.  The  lady  was,  to 
all  appearance,  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood  of 
sixty,  and,  for  an  elderly  lady,  handsome.  I  thought 
of  my  remark  to  Constance  about  the  beauty  and 
deformity  of  age,  and  said  to  myself,  "Here  is  one 
who  has  not  lived  in  vain." 

I  arose  as  she  spoke,  and  answered  in  the  affirma 
tive. 
5 


66  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND   NOW. 

"  You  have  come  too  late,"  she  said,  with  a  touch  of 
feeling  in  her  voice. 

"Not  dead?"  I  ejaculated. 

"Yes,  dead.  Will  you  walk  up  stairs  and  see 
her?" 

I  followed  in  silence,  ascending  to  the  chamber 
which  had  been  occupied  by  Mrs.  Allen  since  the  old 
Captain's  death.  It  was  true  as  she  had  said;  a 
ghastly  corpse  was  before  me.  I  use  the  word  ghastly, 
for  it  fully  expresses  the  ugliness  of  that  lifeless  face, 
withered,  marred,  almost  shorn  of  every  true  aspect 
of  humanity.  I  laid  my  hand  upon  her — the  skin  was 
cold.  I  felt  for  her  pulse,  tut  there  was  no  sign  of 
motion  in  the  arteries. 

"It  is  over,"  I  said,  lifting  myself  from  my  brief 
examination,  "and  may  God  have  mercy  upon  her 
soul!"  The  last  part  of  the  sentence  was  invo 
luntary. 

"Amen!" 

I  felt  that  this  response  was  no  idle  ejaculation. 

"How  was  she  affected ?  "  I  asked.  "  Has  she  been 
sick  for  any  time  ?  Or  did  life  go  out  suddenly?  " 

"It  went  out  suddenly,"  replied  the  lady — "as 
suddenly  as  a  lamp  in  the  wind." 

"Was  she  excited  from  any  cause ? " 

"  She  has  been  in  an  excited  state  ever  since  our 
arrival,  although  every  thing  that  lay  in  our  power  has 
been  done  to  quiet  her  mind  and  give  it  confidence 
and  repose." 

She  spoke  calmly,  as  one  who  held  a  controlling 
position  there,  and  of  right.  I  looked  into  her  serene 


SUDDEN  DEATH.  67 

face,  almost  classic  in  its  outlines,  with  an  expression 
of  blended  inquiry  and  surprise,  that  it  was  evident 
did  not  escape  her  observation,  although  she  offered  no 
explanation  in  regard  to  herself. 

I  turned  again  to  the  corpse,  and  examined  it  with 
some  care.  There  was  nothing  in  its  appearance  that 
gave  me  any  clue  to  the  cause  which  had  produced  this 
sudden  extinguishment  of  life. 

"In  what  way  was  she  excited?"  I  asked,  looking 
at  the  stranger  as  I  stepped  back  from  the  couch  on 
which  the  dead  body  was  lying. 

She  returned  my  steady  gaze,  without  answering, 
for  some  moments.  Either  my  tone  or  manner  affected 
her  unpleasantly,  for  I  saw  her  brows  contract  slightly, 
her  full  lips  close  upon  themselves,  and  her  eyes 
acquire  an  intenser  look. 

"  You  have  been  her  physician,  I  believe  ?  "  There 
was  no  sign  of  feeling  in  the  steady  voice  which  made 
the  inquiry. 

"Yes." 

"  I  need  not,  in  that  case,  describe  to  you  her  un 
happy  state  of  mind.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  an 
evil  will  had  the  mastery  over  her  understanding,  and 
that,  in  the  fierce  struggle  of  evil  passion  with  evil 
passion,  mind  and  body  had  lost  their  right  adjust 
ment." 

"I  know  all  this,"  said  I.  "  Still,  madam,  in  view 
of  my  professional  duty,  I  must  repeat  my  question, 
and  urge  upon  you  the  propriety  of  an  undisguised 
answer.  In  what  way  was  she  excited  ?  and  what  was 


68  TWENTY   YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

the  cause  leading  to  an  excitement  which  has  ended 
thus  fatally?" 

"  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  putting  on  disguises,"  she 
answered,  with  a  quiet  dignity  that  really  looked 
beautiful. 

"  I  pray  you,  madam,  not  to  misunderstand  me," 
said  I.  "  As  a  physician,  I  must  report  the  cause  of  all 
deaths  in  the  range  of  my  practice.  If  I  were  not  to 
do  so  in  this  case,  a  permit  for  burial  would  not  be 
issued  until  a  regular  inquest  was  held  by  the  Coroner." 

"  Ah,  I  see,"  she  replied,  yet  with  an  air  of  inde 
cision.  "  You  are  perfectly  right,  Doctor,  and  we 
must  answer  to  your  satisfaction.  But  let  us  retire 
from  this  chamber." 

She  led  the  way  down  stairs.  As  we  passed  the 
memorable  north-west  room,  she  pushed  the  door 
open,  and  said, 

"  Blanche,  dear,  I  wish  to  see  you.  Come  down  to 
the  parlor." 

I  heard  faintly  the  answer,  in  a  very  musical  voice. 
We  had  scarcely  entered  the  parlor,  when  the  lady 
said — 

"  My  daughter,  Doctor." 

A  vision  of  beauty  and  innocence  met  my  gaze.  A 
young  girl,  not  over  seventeen,  tall  like  her  mother, 
very  fair,  with  a  face  just  subdued  into  something  of 
womanly  seriousness,  stood  in  the  door,  as  I  turned  at 
mention  of  her  presence. 

A  single  lamp  gave  its  feeble  light  to  the  room,  only 
half  subduing  the  shadows  that  went  creeping  into 
corners  and  recesses.  Something  of  a  weird  aspect 


INSANE   CONDUCT   OP   MRS.   ALLEN.  69 

was  on  every  thing ;  and  I  could  not  but  gaze  at  the 
two  strangers  in  that  strange  place  to  them,  under  such 
peculiar  circumstances,  and  wonder  to  see  them  so  calm, 
dignified,  and  self-possessed.  We  sat  down  by  the  table 
on  which  the  lamp  was  standing,  the  elder  of  the  two  op 
posite,  and  the  younger  a  little  turned  away,  so  that 
her  features  were  nearly  concealed. 

"Blanche,"  said  the  former,  "the  Doctor  wishes  to 
know  the  particular  incidents  connected  with  the  death 
of  Mrs.  Allen." 

I  thought  there  was  an  uneasy  movement  on  the 
part  of  the  girl.  She  did  not  reply.  There  was  a 
pause. 

"  The  facts  are  simply  these,  Doctor,"  and  the 
mother  looked  me  steadily  in  the  face,  which  stood  out 
clear,  as  the  lamp  shone  full  on  every  feature.  "From 
the  moment  of  our  arrival,  Mrs.  Allen  has  seemed  like 
one  possessed  of  an  evil  Spirit.  How  she  conducted 
herself  before,  is  known  to  me  only  as  reported  by  the 
servants.  From  the  little  they  have  communicated,  I 
infer  that  for  some  time  past  she  has  not  been  in  her 
right  mind.  How  is  it  ?  You  must  know  as  to  her 
sanity  or  insanity." 

"  She  has  not,  in  my  opinion,  been  a  truly  sane 
woman  for  years,"  was  my  answer. 

"  As  I  just  said,"  she  continued,  "  she  has  seemed 
like  one  possessed  of  an  evil  spirit.  In  no  way  could 
we  soften  or  conciliate  her.  Her  conduct  resembled 
more  nearly  that  of  some  fierce  wild  beast  whose  den 
was  invaded,  than  that  of  a  human  being.  She  would 
hold  no  friendly  intercourse  with  us,  and  if  we  met  at 


70  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND   NOW. 

any  tf  me,  or  in  any  part  of  the  house,  she  would  fix 
her  keen  black  eyes  upon  us,  with  an  expression  that 
sent  a  shudder  to  the  heart.  My  daughter  scarcely 
dared  venture  from  her  room.  She  so  dreaded  to 
meet  her.  Twice,  as  she  flew  past  me,  in  her  restless 
wanderings  over  the  house,  muttering  to  herself,  I 
heard  her  say,  as  she  struck  her  clenched  hand  in  the 
air,  '  I  can  do  ft  again,  and  I  will !'  ' 

A  cold  chill  crept  over  me,  for  I  remembered  the 
death  of  Captain  Allen ;  and  this  was  like  a  confirma 
tion  of  what  I  had  feared  as  to  foul  play. 

"  There  is  no  trusting  one  wholly  or  even  partially 
insane.  So  we  were  always  on  our  guard.  Not  once, 
but  many  times  during  the  few  nights  we  have  spent 
here,  have  we  -heard  the  door  of  our  chamber  tried 
after  midnight.  It  was  plain  to  us  that  it  was  not 
safe  to  live  in  this  way,  and  so  we  had  come  to  the 
reluctant  conclusion  that  personal  restraint  must  be 
secured.  The  question  as  to  how  this  could  best  be 
done  we  had  not  yet  decided,  when  death  unraveled 
the  difficulty." 

The  speaker  ceased  at  this  part  of  her  narrative, 
and  lifting  from  the  table  a  small  bell,  rung  it.  A 
maid  entered.  I  had  never  seen  her  before. 

"  Tell  Jackson  that  I  want  him." 

The  girl  curtsied  respectfully,  and  withdrew. 

Nothing  more  was  said,  until  a  man,  whom  I  recog 
nized  at  a  glance  to  be  a  regularly  trained  English 
servant,  presented  himself. 

"  Jackson,"  said  the  lady,  "  I  wish  you  to  relate, 


DEATH   OF   MRS.  ALLEN.  71 

exactly,  what  occurred  just  previously  to,  and  at  the 
time  of  Mrs.  Allen's  death." 

The  man  looked  bewildered  for  a  moment  or  two  ;  but 
soon  recovering  himself,  answered  without  hesitation. 

"  Hit  'appened  just  in  this  way,  ma'am.  I  was  a 
comin'  hup  stairs,  when  I  met  the  hold  lady  a  tearin' 
down  like  a  mad  cat.  She  looked  kind  o'  awful.  I 
never  saw  anybody  out  of  an  'ospital  look  that  way  in 
all  my  life  before.  She  'eld  an  hiron  poker  in  'er  'and. 
As  my  young  lady — "  and  he  looked  towards  Blanche 
— "  was  in  the  'all,  I  didn't  think  it  safe  for  'er  if  I 
let  the  hold  woman  go  down.  So  I  just  stood  in  'er 
way,  and  put  my  harms  across  the  stairs  so" — 
stretching  his  arms  out.  "  My  !  but  'ow  she  did  fire 
up  !  She  stood  almost  a  minute,  and  then  sprung  on 
me  as  if  she  was  a  tiger.  But  I  was  the  strongest, 
and  'olding  'er  in  my  harms  like  as  I  would  a  mad 
kitten,  I  carried  'er  hup  to  'er  room,  put  'er  hin,  and 
shut  the  door.  My  young  lady  saw  it  hall,  for  she 
followed  right  hup  after  me." 

He  looked  towards  Blanche. 

"  Just  as  it  occurred,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  sweet 
fluttering  voice. 

"  I  heard  the  strife,"  said  her  mother,  "  and  ran  up 
to  see  what  was  the  matter.  I  reached  the  door  of 
Mrs.  Allen's  room  just  as  Jackson  thrust  her  in.  He 
did  not  use  any  more  violence  than  was  needed  in  a 
case  of  such  sudden  emergency.  He  is  strong,  and 
held  her  so  tightly  that  she  could  not  even  struggle. 
One  wild,  fierce  scream  rent  the  air,  as  he  shut  the 
door,  and  then  all  was  silent  as  death.  I  went  in  to 


72  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND  NOW. 

her  instantly.  She  was  on  the  floor  in  a  convulsion. 
You  were  sent  for  immediately ;  but  it  was  too  late 
for  human  intervention.  Jackson,  you  can  go." 

The  man  bowed  with  an  air  of  deferential  respect, 
and  retired. 

"Now,  sir,"  she  added,  turning  tome,  "you  have 
the  facts  as  they  occurred.  I  have  no  wish  to  give 
them  publicity,  for  they  are  family  matters,  and  these 
are  always  in  their  degree,  sacred.  If,  however,  you 
think  it  your  duty  as  a  physician,  to  make  the  matter 
one  of  official  investigation,  I  can  have  nothing  to  say." 

I  thought  for  some  minutes  before  answering.  The 
story,  as  related  by  the  servant,  I  fully  credited. 

"Let  me  see  the  body  again,"  said  I,  coming  at 
length  to  a  conclusion. 

We  went  up  stairs,  all  three  together  ;  but  only  two 
of  us  entered  the  chamber  of  death.  As  we  neared  the 
door,  Blanche  caught  at  her  mother's  arm,  and  I  heard 
her  say,  in  a  whisper  : 

"  Dear  mamma !  spare  me  that  sight  again.  It  is 
too  horrible !" 

"The  presence  of  your  daughter  is  not  needed," 
said  I,  interposing.  "  Let  her  retire  to  her  own  room." 

"Thank  you!"  There  was  a  grateful  expression  in 
her  voice,  as  she  uttered  these  brief  words,  and  then 
went  back,  while  we  passed  in  to  the  apartment  where 
the  dead  woman  was  still  lying. 

As  I  looked  upon  her  face  again,  it  seemed  even 
more  ghastly  than  before ;  and  I  could  hardly  repress 
a  shudder.  My  companion  held  a  lamp,  while  I  made 
as  careful  an  examination  as  was  possible  under  the 


DOCTOR'S  EXAMINATION.  73 

circumstances.  I  did  not  expect  to  find  any  marks  of 
violence,  though  I  searched  for  them  about  her  head, 
neck,  and  chest.  But,  under  the  circumstances,  I  felt 
it  to  be  my  duty  to  know,  from  actual  search,  that  no 
such  signs  existed.  In  every  aspect  presented  by  the 
corpse,  there  was  a  corroboration  of  the  story  related 
by  the  serving  man.  It  was  plain,  that  in  a  fit  of  half 
insane,  uncontrollable  passion,  the  nice  adjustment  of 
physical  forces  had  been  lost. 

"  I  am  fully  satisfied,  madam,"  said  I,  at  length, 
turning  from  my  unpleasant  task. 

She  let  her  calm,  earnest  eyes  dwell  on  mine  for  a 
few  moments,  and  then  answered,  with  a  softened  tone, 
in  which  there  was  just  a  perceptible  thrill  of  feeling — 

"  If  I  were  a  believer  in  omens,  I  should  take  this 
sad  incident,  following  so  quickly  on  our  removal  to 
a  new  country  and  a  new  home,  as  foreshadowing  evil 
to  me  or  mine.  But  I  do  not  so  read  external  events." 

"Between  a  life  like  hers,  and  a  life  like  yours, 
madam,  there  can  be  no  possible  nearness ;  nor  any 
relation  between  your  spiritual  affinities  and  hers.  The 
antipodes  are  not  farther  apart,"  said  I,  in  return; 
"  therefore,  nothing  that  has  befallen  her  can  be  omi 
nous  as  to  you." 

"  I  trust  not,"  she  gravely  answered,  as  we  left  the 
room  together. 

To  my  inquiry  if  I  could  serve  her  in  any  way,  in 
the  present  matter,  she  simply  requested  me  to  send  a 
respectable  undertaker,  who  would'  perform  what  was 
fitting  in  the  last  rites  due  to  the  dead. 

I  promised,  and  retired. 


74  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  appearance,  manner,  and  bearing  of  the  two 
strangers  impressed  me  strongly.  The  elder  had  evi 
dently  moved  in  refined  and  cultivated  society  all  her 
life.  There  was  about  her  the  air  of  "  a  lady,  born 
and  bred" — dignified,  calm,  easy,  and  courteous.  The 
daughter  was  a  lovely  blossom  on  this  stately  stem — 
delicate,  beautiful,  sweet  with  the  odors  of  innocence. 
I  see  her  now  as  I  saw  her  on  that  first  night  of .  our 
meeting — to  my  eyes  a  new  born  vision  of  loveliness. 

I  found  Constance  awaiting,  with  curious  interest, 
my  return.  I  was  going  right  into  the  heart  of  this 
new  wonder,  and  could  not  fail  to  bring  back  some  re 
velation  that  would  satisfy,  in  a  measure,  the  excite 
ment  of  mind  produced  by  so  singular  an  intrusion  of 
strangers  upon  our  quiet  town.  I  answered  her  first 
look  of  inquiry  by  the  words : — 

"  It  is  over.  Another  book  of  life  is  sealed  up  here 
to  be  opened  in  eternity." 

"Dead!     Not  dead?" 

"  Yes,  Constance,  Mrs.  Allen  is  dead.  Her  spirit 
had  passed  away  before  my  arrival." 

"How  did  she  die? — from  what  cause?" 

"  From  what  I  can  learn  she  died  in  a  fit  of  pas 
sion."  I  then  related  all  that  I  had  seen  and  heard. 


MYSTERY  AT  THE  ALLEN  HOUSE.        75 

"But  who  can  they  be?"  This  query  came  as  a 
natural  sequence.  "What  right  have  they  in  the 
Allen  House?" 

"Whoever  they  may  be,"  I  replied,  "they  act,  or, 
at  least,  the  elder  of  the  two  ladies  acts  as  if  her  right 
there  was  not  even  open  to  a  question.  And,  perhaps, 
it  is  not." 

"But  what  can  they  be  to  the  Aliens?" 

"  I  will  give  you,"  said  I,  "  the  benefit  of  my  guess 
ing  on  the  subject.  You  recollect  the  story  told  about 
Captain  Allen's  mother;  how  she  went  off  a  great 
many  years  ago  with  a  stranger — an  Englishman." 

Constance  remembered  all  about  this  family  history, 
for  it  was  the  romance  of  our  town. 

"  My  conclusion  is  that  this  lady  is  the  sister  of 
Captain  Allen — the  child  that  his  mother  took  with  , 
her  when  she  fled  from  her  husband's  house.  I  am 
strengthened  in  this  belief  from  the  first  impression 
of  her  voice,  as  if  the  tones  had  in  them  something 
familiar." 

We  talked  this  matter  over,  looking  at  it  in  every 
way,  until  we  satisfied  ourselves  that  my  conjectures 
must  be  true.  The  quiet  manner  in  which  they  had 
intruded  themselves,  and  taken  possession  of  the  house 
— unheralded  as  far  as  we  knew — could  not  but 
present  itself  to  our  minds  as  a  matter  of  special  wonder. 
The  more  we  conned  it  over  the  more  we  were  puzzled. 
Before  coming  home  I  had  called  at  an  undertaker's, 
and  notified  him  that  his  services  were  wanted  at  the 
Allen  House.  Early  on  the  next  day  I  took  the 
liberty  of  calling  there  myself.  I  sent  up  my  name. 


76 

and  awaited,  with  some  interest,  my  reception.  The 
visit  might  be  regarded  as  an  intrusion,  and  I  was  pre 
pared  to  receive  a  message  from  the  lady  asking  to  be 
excused.  Not  so,  however.  I  had  been  seated  only  a 
few  moments,  when  I  heard  the  rustle  of  her  garments 
on  the  stairs.  My  first  glance  at  her  face  assured  me 
that  I  was  no  unwelcome  visitor. 

"Thank  you,  Doctor,"  she  said,  as  she  extended 
her  hand,  "  for  this  early  call.  Our  meeting  last  night 
for  the  first  time  can  hardly  be  called  a  pleasant  one 
— or  the  associations  connected  with  it  such  as  either 
of  us  might  wish  to  recall." 

"  Our  control  over  events  is  so  slight,"  I  made 
answer  as  I  resumed  my  seat,  "  that  we  should  separate 
unpleasant  feelings  as  far  as  possible  from  any 
memories  connected  with  them." 

A  faint,  sad  smile  just  lightened  up  her  placid  face 
as  she  said,  in  reply  to  the  remark. 

"  Ah,  Doctor,  that  may  not  be.  Lives  are  too  in 
timately  blended  here  for  any  one  to  suffer  or  do 
wrong  without  leaving  a  burden  of  sadness  on  other 
memories." 

"True;  but  the  burden  will  be  light  or  heavy 
according  to  our  strength." 

She  looked  at  me  without  replying,  for  the  remark 
was  so  palpable,  that  it  seemed  to  involve  nothing  beyond 
a  literal  fact. 

"  Or  rather,"  I  said,  "the  burden  will  be  heavy  or 
light  according  to  our  state  or  quality." 

There  was  a  sign  of  awakening  interest  in  her  coun- 


PLEASANT   CONVERSATION.  77 

tenance  as  if  my  remark  had  touched  some  hidden 
spring  of  thought. 

"  If  we  are  right  with  ourselves,"  I  went  on,  "  the 
disturbance  produced  by  others'  misconduct  will  not 
reach  very  far  down.  The  pressure  of  sadness  may 
lie  upon  us  for  a  season ;  but  cannot  long  remain  ;  for 
the  pure  heart  will  lift  itself  into  serene  atmospheres." 

"  But,  who  is  right  with  himself?"  she  said.  "Whose 
heart  is  pure  enough  to  dwell  in  these  serene  atmos 
pheres  ?  Not  mine,  alas  !" 

I  looked  into  the  suddenly  illuminated  face  as  she 
put  these  questions,  in  surprise  at  the  quick  change 
which  had  passed  over  it.  But  the  tone  in  which  she 
uttered  the  closing  sentence  was  touched  with  tender 
sadness. 

"  Rather  let  me  say,"  I  made  answer,  "in  the  degree 
that  we  are  right  with  ourselves.  None  attain  unto 
perfection  here." 

"Yet,"  said  the  lady,  with  a  sweet  calmness  of 
manner  that  made  her  look  beautiful,  "  is  it  not  plea 
sant  to  imagine  a  state  of  perfection — or  rather  a  state 
in  which  evil  is  quiescent,  and  the  heart  active  with  all 
good  and  loving  impulses  ?  How  full  of  inspiration  is 
such  an  ideal  of  life  !  But  the  way  by  which  we  must 
go,  if  we  would  rise  into  this  state,  is  one  of  difficulty 
and  perpetual  warfare.  The  enemies  of  our  peace  are 
numbered  by  myriads ;  and  they  seek  with  deadly 
hatred  to  do  us  harm." 

"And  yet  are  powerless,"  said  I,  "if  we  keep  the 
outworks  of  our  lives  in  order." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "it  is  the  very  ultimate  or 


78  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND   NOW. 

last  things  of  our  lives  where  the  power  of  repulsion 
resides.  We  can,  in  temptation,  be  it  ever  so  strong, 
refuse  to  act  in  the  wrong  direction — refuse  to  do  an 
evil  thing,  because  it  is  sinful.  And  this  is  our  bul 
wark;  this  is  our  tower  of  safety;  for  it  is  only  in 
wrong  doing  that  our  enemies  gain  the  victory  over 
us.  They  may  assault  us  never  so  fiercely — may 
dazzle  our  eyes  with  the  glitter  of  this  world's  most 
alluring  things — may  stir  the  latent  envy,  malice, 
pride,  or  dishonesty,  that  lurks  in  every  heart ;  but  if 
we  stand  still,  hold  back  our  hands  and  stay  our  feet — 
if  we  give  our  resolute  '  No '  to  all  enticements,  and 
keep  our  actions  free  from  evil,  all  hell  cannot  prevail 
against  us.  God  will  take  care  of  the  interior  of  our 
lives,  and  make  them  pure  and  heavenly,  if  we  resist 
evil  in  the  exterior.  But,  pardon  me ;  I  did  not  mean 
to  read  you  a  homily." 

She  smiled  with  a  grave  sort  of  smile,  and  then  sat 
silent. 

"I  like  your  way  of  talking,"  said  I.  There  was 
something  about  the  lady  that  put  me  at  ease  with  her, 
and  I  said  this  without  reserve,  as  if  I  were  speaking 
to  a  friend.  "  It  looks  to  higher  things  in  life  than 
people  usually  regard  as  worthy  of  our  chief  considera 
tion.  To  most  of  us,  the  outer  world  offers  the  highest 
attractions ;  only  the  few  turn  inwardly  to  the  more 
beautiful  world  of  mind." 

"Outward  things  fade — change — die;  only  spiritual 
things  dwell  in  unfading  beauty.  We  are  in  a  world 
of  mere  effects  as  to  our  bodies ;  but  the  soul  lives  in 
the  world  of  causes.  Do  we  not  spend  a  vain  and 


EXALTED   SENTIMENTS.  79 

unprofitable  life,  then,  if  we  go  on  building,  day  after 
day,  our  tabernacle  on  the  ever-shifting  sands  of  time, 
instead  of  upon  the  immoveable  Rock  of  Ages  ?  But 
who  is  guiltless  of  this  folly  ?  Not  I !  not  I !  " 

Again  that  calm,  earnest  voice  fell  to  a  lower  key, 
and  was  veiled  by  a  tender  sadness. 

"It  is  something  gained,"  she  added,  with  returning 
firmness  of  tone,  "  if,  even  after  the  sharp  lessons  of 
many  years,  we  get  glimpses  of  Truth,  and  are  willing 
to  follow,  though  it  be  at  a  far  distance,  the  light  she 
holds  aloft.  Yes,  it  is  something  gained — something 
gained ! " 

She  spoke  the  last  words  as  if  merely  thinking 
aloud,  and  not  addressing  an  auditor. 

"  Can  I  aid  you  in  anything,  madam  ?"  said  I, 
breaking  in  upon  a  state  of  reverie  into  which  her 
mind  seemed  to  be  falling.  "  The  circumstances 
under  which  you  find  yourself  are  peculiar — I  refer  to 
the  death  of  Mrs.  Allen,  following  so  quickly  on  your 
arrival  among  strangers — and  you  may  stand  in  need 
of  friendly  service  from  one  who  knows  the  people  and 
their  ways.  If  so,  do  not  hesitate  to  command  me." 

"I  thank  you  sincerely,"  she  answered,  unbending 
still  more  from  her  almost  stately  manner.  "  Friendly 
consideration  I  shall  need,  of  course — as  who  does  not 
in  this  world  ?  And  I  repeat  my  thanks,  that  you 
have  so  kindly  and  so  promptly  anticipated  my  needs. 
So  far  as  the  remains  of  my  unhappy  kinswoman  are 
concerned,  I  have  referred  all  to  the  undertaker.  He 
will  carry  out  my  wishes.  To-morrow  the  interment 
"will  take  place.  On  the  day  following,  if  it  it  is  alto- 


80  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,  AND   NOW. 

gether  agreeable  to  yourself,  I  would  esteem  a  call  as 
a  particular  favor." 

I  arose,  as  she  concluded  the  last  sentence,  saying  as 
I  did  so, 

"  I  will  be  sure  to  call,  madam ;  and  render  any 
service  in  my  power.  You  may  regard  me  as  a  friend. ' ' 

"Already  you  have  extorted  my  confidence,"  she 
answered,  faintly  smiling. 

I  bowed  low,  and  was  retiring  when  she  said — 

"  A  moment,  Doctor  !" 

I  turned  toward  her  again. 

"  Doctor,  it  may  be  well  for  you  to  see  my  daughter." 

"  Is  she  indisposed  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Not  exactly  that.  But  the  excitement  and  alarm 
of  the  last  two  or  three  days  have  been,  I  fear,  rather 
too  much  for  her  nerves.  I  say  alarm,  for  the  poor 
girl  was  really  frightened  at  Mrs.  Allen's  wild  conduct 
— and  no  wonder.  Death  following  in  so  sad  a  way, 
shocked  her  painfully.  She  did  not  sleep  well  last 
night ;  and  this  morning  she  looks  pale  and  drooping. 
In  all  probability,  quiet  of  mind  and  body  will  soon 
adjust  the  balance  of  health;  still,  it  may  be  safest 
for  you  to  see  her." 

"  A  mere  temporary  disturbance,  no  doubt,  which, 
as  you  suggest,  quiet  of  mind  and  body  will,  in  all 
probability,  overcome.  Yet  it  will  do  no  harm  for  me 
to  see  her  ;  and  may  save  trouble." 

"  Excuse  me  a  moment,"  she  said,  and  left  the  room. 
In  a  little  while  she  returned,  and  asked  me  to  accom 
pany  her  up  stairs, 

I  found  the  daughter  in  a  black  and  gray  silk  wrap- 


SICKNESS   OF  THE   DAUGHTER.  81 

per,  seated  on  a  lounge.  She  arose  as  I  entered,  a 
slight  flush  coming  into  her  face,  which  subsided  in  a 
few  moments,  leaving  it  quite  pale,  and  weary  looking. 
After  we  were  all  seated,  I  took  her  hand,  which  was 
hot  in  the  palm,  but  cold  at  the  extremities.  Her 
pulse  was  feeble,  disturbed,  and  quick. 

"  How  is  your  head  ?"  I  asked. 

"It  feels  a  little  strangely,"  she  replied,  moving  it 
two  or  three  times,  as  if  to  get  some  well  defined  sen 
sation. 

"Any  pain?" 

"  Yes ;  a  dull  kind  of  pain  over  my  left  eye,  that 
seems  to  go  deep  into  my  head." 

"  What  general  bodily  sensation  have  you  ?  Any 
that  you  can  speak  of  definitely  ?" 

"  None,  except  a  sense  of  oppression  and  heaviness. 
When  I  raise  my  arm,  it  seems  to  fall  like  lead  ;  if  I 
move  about,  I  am  weary,  and  wish  to  be  at  rest." 

"  Rest  is,  by  all  means,  the  most  desirable  condition 
for  you  now,"  said  I.  Then  addressing  her  mother,  I 
added — "  I  think  your  daughter  had  better  lie  down. 
Let  her  room  be  shaded  and  kept  quiet.  She  needs 
rest  and  sleep.  Sleep  is  one  of  nature's  great  re 
storers." 

"  Will  you  make  no  prescription,  Doctor  ?"  the 
mother  asked. 

I  reflected  on  the  symptoms  exhibited,  for  a  few  mo 
ments,  and  then  said, 

"  Nothing  beyond  repose,  now.  I  trust  that  nature, 
as  the  pressure  is  removed,  will  work  all  right  again." 

"  You  will  call  in  again  to-day." 
6 


82  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 

"  Yes ;  towards  evening  I  will  see  your  daughter, 
when  I  hope  to  find  her  improved  in  every  way." 

I  spoke  with  a  cheerfulness  of  manner  that  did  not 
altogether  express  my  feelings  in  the  case  ;  for,  there 
were  some  indications,  not  yet  clear  enough  for  a 
diagnosis,  that  awakened  slight  concern.  As  I  did 
not  wish  to  go  wrong  in  my  first  prescription,  I  deemed 
it  better  to  wait  a  few  hours,  and  see  how  nature 
would  succeed  in  her  efforts  to  repel  the  enemy.  So  I 
went  away,  with  a  promise  to  call  again  early  in  the 
afternoon. 


OLD  AUNTY.  83 


CHAPTER  IX. 

IT  was  between  four  and  five  oclock  in  the  after 
noon,  when  I  called  again  at  the  Allen  House.  An 
old  colored  servant,  who  had  been  in  the  family  ever 
since  my  remembrance — she  went  by  the  name  of 
"Aunty" — was  standing  by  the  gate  as  I  alighted 
from  my  chaise. 

"  'Deed,  massa,  Ise  glad  you  come,"  said  she  in  a 
troubled  way. 

"  Why  so,  Aunty  ?     No  body  very  sick,  I  hope." 

"  'Deed,  an  dar  is  den ;  else  old  Aunty  don't  know 
nothin'." 

"Who?" 

"  Why  dat  blessed  young  lady  what  drapped  in 
among  us,  as  if  she'd  come  right  down  from  Heaven. 
I  was  jest  a  gwine  to  run  down  an'  ax  you  to  come  and 
see  her  right  away." 

I  did  not  linger  to  talk  with  "Aunty,"  but  went 
forward  to  the  house.  The  mother  of  Blanche  met 
me  at  the  door.  She  looked  very  anxious. 

"  How  is  your  daughter  now  ?"  I  asked. 

"Not  so  well'  as  when  you  saw  her  this  morning," 
she  answered.  Her  voice  trembled. 

"  I  would  have  called  earlier,  but  have  been  visiting 
a  patient  several  miles  away." 


84  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 

"  She  has  been  lying  in  a  kind  of  stupor  ever  since 
you  were  here.  What  can  it  mean,  Doctor  ?" 

The  mother  looked  intently  in  my  face,  and  paused 
for  an  answer,  with  her  lips  apart.  But  I  knew  as 
little  as  she  what  it  meant.  Ah  !  how  often  do  anxious 
friends  question  us,  and  hearken  eagerly  for  our 
replies,  when  the  signs  of  disease  are  yet  too  indefinite 
for  any  clear  diagnosis  ! 

"  I  can  tell  better  after  seeing  your  daughter,"  said  I. 

And  we  went  up  to  the  sick  girl's  chamber ;  that 
north-west  room,  at  the  window  of  which  I  had  first 
seen  the  fair  stranger,  as  I  stood  wondering  in  storm 
and  darkness,  I  found  her  lying  in  apparent  sleep, 
and  breathing  heavily.  Her  face  was  flushed ;  and  I 
noticed  the  peculiar  odor  that  usually  accompanies  an 
eruptive  fever, 

"  How  do  you  feel  now  ?"  I  asked. 

She  had  opened  her  eyes  as  I  took  her  hand.  She 
did  not  answer,  but  looked  at  me  in  a  half  bewildered 
way.  Her  skin  was  hot  and  the  pulse  small,  but  tense 
and  corded. 

"  Does  your  head  ache  ?" 

I  wished  to  arouse  her  to  external  consciousness. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  Doctor." 

She  recognized  me  and  smiled  faintly. 

"  How  are  you  now  ?"  I  inquired. 

"Not  so  well,  I  think,  Doctor, "she  answered. 
"  My  head  aches  worse  than  it  did ;  and  I  feel  sick  all 
over.  I  don't  know  what  can  ail  me." 

"  Have  you  any  uneasiness,  or  sense  of  oppression 
in  the  stomach  ?"  I  inquired. 


CRITICAL   CONDITION   OF   BLANCHE.  85 

"Oh,  yes,  Doctor."  She  laid  her  hand  upon  her 
chest ;  and  drew  in  a  long  breath,  as  if  trying  to  get 
relief. 

"  Have  you  felt  as  well  as  usual  for  a  week,  or  ten 
days  past?"  I  inquired. 

"No,  Doctor."  It  was  the  mother  who  answered 
my  question.  "  And  in  order  that  you  may  under 
stand  the  case  clearly,  let  me  say,  that  it  is  only  a 
week  since  we  arrived  from  England.  We  came  over 
in  a  steamer,  and  were  fifteen  days  in  making  the 
trip.  From  Boston,  we  came  here  in  our  own  carriage. 
Before  leaving  home,  Blanche  went  around  to  see  a 
number  of  poor  cottagers  in  our  neighbourhood,  and 
there  was  sickness  at  several  of  the  places  where  she 
called.  In  one  cottage,  particularly,  was  a  case  of 
low  fever.  I  was  troubled  when  I  learned  that  she 
had  been  there,  but  still  hoped  that  her  excellent  state 
of  health  would  repel  anything  like  contagion.  During 
the  first  part  of  our  voyage,  she  suffered  considerably 
from  sea-sickness  ;  but  got  along  very  well  after  that. 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  unhappy  scenes  of  the  last 
few  days,  with  their  painfully  exciting  consummation, 
I  think  she  would  have  thrown  off,  wholly,  any  lurking 
tendency  to  disease." 

I  turned  my  face  partly  aside,  so  that  its  expression 
could  not  be  seen.  The  facts  stated,  and  the  symp 
toms  as  now  presented,  left  me  in  little  doubt  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  malady  against  which  I  had  to  contend. 
Even  while  her  mother  talked,  my  patient  fell  away 
into  the  stupor  from  which  I  had  aroused  her. 

My  treatment  of  the  case  coincided  with  the  practice 

** 


86  ffWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

of  men  eminent  in  the  school  of  medicine  to  which  I 
then  belonged.  I  am  not  a  disciple  of  that  school  now, 
having  found  a  system  of  exacter  science,  and  one 
compassing  more  certain  results  with  smaller  risk  and 
less  waste  of  physical  energy. 

In  order  to  remove  the  uneasiness  of  which  my 
patient  complained,  I  gave  an  emetic.  Its  action  was 
salutary,  causing  a  determination  towards  the  skin, 
and  opening  the  pores,  as  well  as  relieving  the  oppres 
sion  from  which  she  suffered. 

"How  is  your  head  now?"  I  asked,  after  she  had 
been  quiet  for  some  minutes. 

"  Better.     I  feel  scarcely  any  pain." 

"  So  far,  all  is  right,"  said  I,  cheerfully. 

The  mother  looked  at  me  with  an  anxious  face.  I 
arose,  and  we  retired  from  the  room  together.  Before 
leaving,  I  spoke  encouragingly  to  my  patient,  and 
promised  to  see  her  early  in  the  morning. 

"My  daughter  is  very  sick,  Doctor.  What  is  the 
disease  ?  "  The  mother  spoke  calmly  and  firmly.  "  I 
am  not  one  towards  whom  any  concealments  need  be 
practised;  and  it  is  meet  that  I  should  know  the  worst, 
that  I  may  do  the  best." 

"  The  disease,  madam,"  I  replied,  "has  not  yet  put 
on  all  of  its  distinctive  signs.  A  fever — we  call  it  the 
fever  of  incubation — is  the  forerunner  of  several  very 
different  ailments,  and,  at  the  beginning,  the  most 
accurate  eye  may  fail  to  see  what  is  beyond.  In  the 
present  case,  however,  I  think  that  typhoid  fever  is 
indicated." 

I  spoke  as  evenly  as  possible,  and  with  as  little  ap- 


SYMPTOMS   OF  TYPHOID   FEVEE.  87 

parent  concern  as  possible.  But  I  saw  the  blood  go 
instantly  back  from  the  mother's  face. 

"Typhoid  fever!"  she  ejaculated,  in  a  low  voice, 
clasping  her  hands  together.  I  learned  afterwards 
that  she  had  cause  to  dread  this  exhausting  and  often 
fatal  disease.  "  Oh,  Doctor !  do  for  her  as  if  she 
were  your  own  and  only  child." 

She  grasped  my  arm,  like  one  catching  at  a  fleeting 
hope. 

"As  if  she  were  my  own  and  only  child!"  I  re 
peated  her  words  in  promise  and  assurance,  adding — 

"  The  first  result  of  the  medicine  which  I  gave  is 
just  what  I  desired.  I  will  leave  something  more  to 
be  taken  at  intervals  of  two  hours,  until  midnight. 
In  the  morning,  I  hope  to  find  a  very  encouraging 
change." 

"  But,  Doctor,"  she  replied,  "  if  this  is  a  case  of 
typhoid  fever,  no  hope  of  any  quick  change  for  the 
better  can  be  entertained.  I  am  no  stranger  to  the 
fearful  malady." 

"Attacks  of  all  diseases,"  I  answered  to  this,  "are 
more  or  less  severe,  according  to  the  nature  of  the 
predisposing  and  exciting  causes.  So  far  as  your 
daughter  is  concerned,  I  should  think,  from*  the  very 
slight  opportunity  I  have  had  of  forming  an  opinion 
in  regard  to  her,  that  she  is  not  readily  susceptible  of 
morbific  intrusions.  Under  an  unusual  exposure  to 
exciting  causes,  the  balance  of  health  has  been  over 
come.  If  my  presumption  is  correct,  we  have  the 
steady  effort  of  nature,  in  co-operation  with  remedial 
agencies,  working  towards  a  cure." 


88  TWENTY   YEARS   AGO,    AND   NOW. 

"Do  you  think  the  attack  light,  or  severe?"  the 
mother  asked,  speaking  more  calmly. 

"  Neither  light  nor  severe ;  but  of  a  character, 
judging  from  the  first  impression  made  upon  it,  en 
tirely  controllable  by  medicines." 

This  opinion  gave  her  confidence.  As  I  had  spoken 
without  any  apparent  concealment,  she  evidently  be 
lieved  the  case  to .  stand  exactly  as  I  had  stated  it. 
After  leaving  medicine  to  be  taken,  every  two  hours, 
for  the  first  part  of  the  night,  I  went  away. 

In  the  morning,  I  found  my  patient  in  that  coma 
tose  state,  the  usual  attendant  upon  typhoid  fever. 
She  aroused  herself  on  my  entrance,  and  answered 
all  questions  clearly.  She  had  no  pain  in  the  head, 
nor  any  distressing  symptoms.  Her  skin  was  soft  and 
moist.  All  things  looked  favorable.  I  gave,  now, 
only  gentle  diaphoretics,  and  let  the  case  progress, 
watching  it  with  the  closest  attention.  In  this,  I  fol 
lowed  my  usual  course  of  treatment  as  to  giving  medi 
cines.  If  I  could  produce  a  reaction,  or  remove  some 
obstruction,  and  give  nature  a  chance,  I  did  not  think 
it  wise  to  keep  on  with  drugs,  which,  from  their  gene 
ral  poisonous  qualities,  make  even  well  people  sick — 
regarding  the  struggle  of  life  with  disease  as  hazardous 
enough,  without  increasing  the  risk  by  adding  a  new 
cause  of  disturbance,  unless  the  need  of  its  presence 
were  unmistakably  indicated. 

The  course  of  this  fever  is  always  slow  and  exhaust 
ing.  My  patient  sunk  steadily,  day  by  day,  while  I 
continued  to  watch  the  case  with  more  than  common 
anxiety.  At  the  end  of  a  week,  she  was  feeble  as  an 


THE   RECOVERY  OF   BLANCHE.  89 

infant,  and  lay,  for  the  most  part,  in  a  state  of  coma. 
I  visited  her  two  or  three  times  every  day,  and  had 
the  thought  of  her  almost  constantly  in  my  mind. 
Her  mother,  nerved  for  the  occasion,  was  calm,  pa 
tient,  and  untiring.  The  excitement  which  appeared 
on  the  occasion  of  my  first  visits,  when  there  was  doubt 
as  to  the  character  of  the  disease,  passed  away,  and 
never  showed  itself  again  during  her  daughter's  illness. 
I  saw,  daily,  deeper  into  her  character,  which  more 
and  more  impressed  me  with  its  simple  grandeur,  if  I 
may  use  the  word  in  this  connection.  There  was  no 
thing  trifling,  mean,  or  unwomanly  about  her.  Her 
mind  seemed  to  rest  with  a  profoundly  rational,  and  at 
the  same  time  child-like  trust,  in  Providence.  Fear 
did  not  unnerve  her,  nor  anxiety  stay  her  hands  in 
any  thing.  She  met  me,  at  every  visit,  with  dignified 
self-possession,  and  received  my  report  of  the  case, 
each  time,  without  visible  emotion.  I  had  not  at 
tempted  to  deceive  her  in  any  thing  from  the  begin 
ning  ;  she  had  seen  this,  and  the  fact  gave  her  confi 
dence  in  all  my  statements  touching  her  daughter's 
condition. 

At  the  end  of  a  week,  I  commenced  giving  stimu 
lants,  selecting,  as  the  chief  article,  sound  old  Ma- 
deria  wine.  The  effect  was  soon  apparent,  in  a  firmer 
pulse  and  a  quickened  vitality.  The  lethargic  condi 
tion  in  which  she  had  lain  for  most  of  the  time  since 
the  commencement  of  the  attack,  began  to  give  way, 
and  in  a  much  shorter  period  than  is  usually  the  case, 
in  this  disease,  we  had  the  unmistakable  signs  of  con 
valescence. 


90 

"  Thank  God,  who,  by  means  of  your  skill,  has 
given  me  back  my  precious  child !"  said  the  mother  to 
me,  one  day,  after  Blanche  was  able  to  sit  up  in  bed. 
She  took  my  hand  and  grasped  it  tightly.  I  saw  that 
she  was  deeply  moved.  I  merely  answered : 

"With  Him  are  the  issues  of  life." 

"  And  I  have  tried  to  leave  all  with  Him,"  she  said. 
"  To  be  willing  to  suffer  even  that  loss,  the  bare  thought 
of  which  makes  me  shudder.  But  I  am  not  equal  to 
the  trial,  and  in  mercy  He  has  spared  me." 

"  He  is  full  of  compassion,  and  gracious.  He 
knows  our  strength,  and  will  not  test  it  beyond  the 
limits  of  endurance." 

"Doctor,"  she  said,  a  light  coming  into  her  face, 
"I  have  much  to  say  to  you,  but  not  now.  I  think 
you  can  understand  me." 

I  merely  bowed. 

"There  is  one  thing,"  she  went  on,  "that  I  have 
liked  in  you  from  the  beginning.  I  am  to  you  a  total 
stranger,  and  my  presence  in  this  house  is  a  fact  that 
must  awaken  many  questions  in  your  mind.  Yet  you 
have  shown  no  restless  curiosity,  have  plied  me  with 
no  leading  questions,  have  left  me  free  to  speak,  or 
keep  silence.  There  is  a  manly  courtesy  about  this 
that  accords  with  my  feelings." 

I  bowed  again,  but  did  not  venture  upon  mere  words 
of  compliment. 

"I  am  not  sure,"  said  she,  "that  my  name  even  is 
known  to  you." 

"  It  is  not,"  I  answered.  "  You  have  seemed  to  avoid 
any  allusion  thereto,  and  delicacy  forbade  my  asking." 


FLORA  ALLEN.  91 

"There  has  been  no  purposed  concealment.  My 
name  is  Montgomery ;  and  I  am  sister  to  the  late  Cap 
tain  Allen." 

"I  had  already  inferred  this  relationship." 

The  remark  evidently  surprised  her. 

"  On  what  ground  could  you  base  such  an  infer 
ence?"  she  asked,  curiously. 

"  On  traditional  ground.     The  history  of  this  old 

mansion  is  familiar  to  most  persons  in  S ;  and 

some  of  the  incidents  connected  with  the  family  have 
too  strong  a  tinge  of  romance  about  them  to  easily 
pass  into  oblivion.  It  is  well  known  to  us  that  Cap 
tain  Allen  had  an  only  sister." 

"What  is  it  said  became  of  her?" 

"  When  she  was  about  two  years  of  age  her  mother 
carried  her  off,  sailing,  as  was  believed,  to  England,  of 
which  country  she  was  a  native." 

"Is  the  name  oT  the  child  preserved  in  this  tra 
dition  ?" 

"Yes.     It  was  Flora." 

"  My  own  name,"  she  said. 

"  And  in  person  you  are  identical." 

"Yes.  My  mother's  early  life  embraced  some 
dreadful  experiences.  Her  father  and  mother,  with 
two  brothers  and  a  younger  sister,  were  all  murdered 
by  pirates.  She  alone  was  spared,  and  afterwards  be 
came  the  wife  of  a  sea  captain,  who,  I  fear,  was  not  a 
man  innocent  of  blood.  On  this  point,  however,  my 
mother  was  reserved,  almost  silent.  In  the  course  of 
time  she  grew  so  wretched,  as  the  wife  of  this  man, 
that  she  sent  a  letter  to  England,  addressed  to  some 


92  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND   NOW. 

remembered  relative,  imploring  him  to  save  her  from 
a  life  that  was  worse  than  death.  This  letter  fell  into 
the  right  hands.  A  cousin  was  sent  out  from  Eng 
land,  and  she  fled  with  him.  No  attempt,  as  far  as 
we  know,  was  ever  made  to  follow  and  regain  her. 
She  did  not  live  many  years  afterwards.  I  grew  up 
among  my  relatives,  ignorant  of  her  history.  My  me 
mory  of  her  is  distinct,  though  she  died  when  I  was 
but  eight  years  old. 

"  I  married,  at  the  age  of  twenty-six,  an  officer  in 
the  British  army,  one  of  the  younger  sons  in  a  titled 
family,  for  whom  no  way  in  the  world  is  opened,  ex 
cept  through  the  church  or  the  battle-field.  General 
Montgomery  chose  the  profession  of  a  soldier,  not 
from  a  love  of  its  exciting  and  fearful  concomitants, 
but  because  he  had  no  fancy  for  the  gown  and  cassock, 
and  could  not  be  a  hypocrite  in  religion.  He  went 
quite  early  to  British  India,  and  distinguished  himself 
there  by  many  acts  of  bravery,  as  well  as  by  his 
humane  and  honorable  conduct.  So  highly  was  he 
regarded  by  the  East  India  Company,  that  he  was 
selected  for  most  important  services,  and  assigned  to 
posts  of  great  responsibility.  He  was  past  thirty 
years  of  age  when  I  met  him,  on  the  occasion  of  one 
of  his  visits  to  England.  The  attraction  was  mutual ; 
and  when  he  returned  to  Calcutta,  I  went  with  him  as 
his  wife.  Then  came  twenty  years  of  a  happy  mar 
ried  life ; — happy,  I  mean,  so  far  as  a  perfect  union 
of  souls  can  make  us  happy  in  this  world,  but  mise 
rable,  at  times,  through  intense  anxiety  for  the  absent 
one  exposed  to  fearful  perils. 


MRS.  MONTGOMERY'S  STORY.  93 

"We  had  three  children."  There  was  a  tremor  in 
the  voice  of  Mrs.  Montgomery  as  she  referred  to  her 
children.  "  One  only  remains."  She  paused,  as  if 
to  recover  herself,  and  then  went  on. 

"  I  lost  my  husband  first.  Ten  years  ago,  he  fell  at 
the  post  of  duty,  and,  while  my  heart  lay  crushed  and 
bleeding  under  the  terrible  blow,  it  leaped  with  throb- 
bings  of  pride,  as  his  honored  name  went  sounding 
from  lip  to  lip,  and  from  land  to  land.  I  had  not  the 
sad  pleasure  of  being  with  him  in  that  last  time.  For 
the  sake  of  our  children,  I  was  residing  in  England. 

"  Troubles  rarely  come  alone.  Two  years  after 
wards  my  oldest  son  died.  My  home  was  in  the  fam 
ily  of  General  Montgomery,  where  I  was  treated  with 
great  kindness ;  but  as  my  income  was  not  sufiicient 
for  an  establishment  of  my  own,  I  felt  a  sense  of  obli 
gation  that  is  always  oppressive  to  one  of  my  nature. 
This  feeling  grew  upon  me  daily,  and  at  last  began  to 
haunt  me  like  a  constantly  re-appearing  spectre.  It 
is  now  about  three  years  since,  in  looking  over  some 
old  letters  and  papers,  I  came  unexpectedly  upon  a 
document  written  by  my  mother — all  the  evidence  as 
to  this  was  clear — and  addressed  to  myself.  How  it 
should  have  remained  so  long  unobserved,  and  yet  in 
my  possession,  is  one  of  the  mysterious  things  which  I 
do  not  attempt  to  explain.  There  is  a  Providence  in 
all  things,  even  to  the  most  minute,  and  I  simply  refer 
the  fact  to  Providence,  and  leave  it  there.  This  docu 
ment  spoke  briefly,  but  with  no  special  particularity, 
of  her  marriage  with  a  Captain  Allen,  and  settlement 
in  this  town.  It  stated  that  she  had  two  children,  a 


94  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 

son  and  a  daughter,  and  that  in  leaving  America  for 
England,  she  had  taken  her  daughter,  but  left  the  son 
behind.  There  was  no  suggestion  as  to  the  use  to  be 
made  of  these  facts ;  but  there  was  such  a  statement 
of  them  as  left  their  verification,  I  thought,  easy.  I 
turned  them  over  and  over  in  my  mind,  and  in  the  end 
resolved  to  gain  all  accessible  information  touching  the 
present  condition  of  things.  To  this  end,  I  sent  over 
about  two  years  ago,  a  man  of  prudence  and  intelli-1 
gence,  versed  in  legal  matters,  with  instructions  to 
obtain  all  possible  particulars  in  regard  to  my  brother, 
his  family  and  estate.  He  brought  back  word  that 
my  brother  was  dead ;  that  he  had  left  no  children, 
and  that  his  widow — if,  indeed,  she  were  ever  his  legal 
wife,  which  seemed  to  be  doubted — was  old,  in  poor 
health,  and  verging  towards  mental  imbecility,  if  not 
insanity.  That  there  was  a  large  and  valuable  estate, 
to  which  I,  as  sister  of  Captain  Allen,  was  undoubt 
edly  the  heir. 

"  I  kept  these  things,  for  the  time  being,  to  myself, 
and  pondered  over  them  in  some  perplexity  as  to  the 
best  course  to  take.  But  from  these  thoughts,  my 
mind  was  soon  turned  by  the  illness  of  my  oldest 
daughter.  After  a  lingering  sickness  of  many  weeks, 
she  died.  It  seemed  almost  impossible  to  arouse  my 
self  from  the  stunning  effects  of  this  blow.  It  crushed 
me  down  more  than  any  previous  sorrow,  for  it  fell 
upon  a  heart  weakened  by  pain.  It  was  many  months 
before  the  discipline  of  this  affliction  awakened  me  to 
thoughts  of  a  higher  life.  Then  I  began  to  rise  into 
serener  heights — to  see  as  by  an  interior  vision,  to 


A  SAFE   LEGAL  AGENT.  95 

believe  that  even  our  saddest  things  may  fall  upon  us 
in  mercy. 

"  Finally,  circumstances  of  which  I  need  not  speak, 
made  me  resolve  to  leave  England,  and  under  legal 
advice  of  the  highest  authority,  take  quiet  possession 
of  this  estate,  which  is  mine." 

Mrs.  Montgomery  ceased  speaking. 

"Perhaps,"  she  resumed,  after  a  moment,  "it  may 
be  as  well,  all  things  considered,  that  you  do  not  speak 
of  this  for  the  present.  I  shall,  as  soon  as  my  daugh 
ter's  full  recovery  gives  me  time  to  enter  into  the  sub 
ject,  place  my  aiFairs  in  the  hands  of  a  safe  legal 
agent,  in  order  that  they  may  assume  due  form  and 
order.  You  can,  no  doubt,  refer  me  to  the  right  in 
dividual." 

"I  can,"  was  my  reply.  "Judge  Bigelow,  of  our 
town,  is  the  man.  I  speak  of  him  with  the  utmost 
confidence." 

"Thank  you,  Doctor.  You  lay  me  under  addi 
tional  obligation,"  she  said.  "  I  will,  at  an  early  day, 
consult  him." 

Thus  closed  this  deeply  interesting  interview. 


96 


CHAPTER    X. 

I  ATTENDED  Blanche  Montgomery  through  her  slow 
convalescence,  and  had  many  opportunities  for  observ 
ing  her  and  her  mother  closely.  The  more  intimately 
I  knew  them  the  higher  did  they  rise  in  my  estimation. 
A  purer,  sweeter,  truer-hearted  girl  than  Blanche  I 
had  never  seen.  There  was  an  artlessness  and  an  in 
nocence  about  her  but  rarely  met  with  in  young  ladies 
of  her  age.  Especially  was  she  free  from  that  worldli- 
ness  and  levity  which  so  often  mars  young  maidenhood. 
Her  mind  was  well  stored  and  cultivated,  and  she  was 
beginning  to  use  her  mental  treasures  in  a  way  that 
interested  you,  and  made  you  listen  with  pleased  at 
tention  when  she  spoke  on  even  common-place  sub 
jects.  Her  manners  had  in  them  a  grace  and  dignity 
that  was  very  attractive.  As  she  advanced  towards 
health  her  deportment  took  on  an  easy,  confiding  air, 
as  if  she  looked  upon  me  as  a  true  friend.  Her  smile, 
whenever  I  appeared,  broke  over  her  gentle  face  like 
a  gleam  of  sunshine. 

Mrs.  Montgomery's  manner  towards  me  was  distin 
guished  by  the  same  frankness  that  marked  her  daugh 
ter's  deportment.  The  stately  air  that  struck  me  in 
the  beginning  I  no  longer  observed.  If  it  existed,  my 


DELIA  FLOYD'S  ENGAGEMENT.  97 

eyes  saw  it  differently.  At  her  request,  when  her 
mind  was  sufficiently  at  ease  about  her  daughter  to 
busy  itself  with  the  common  affairs  of  life,  I  brought 
Judge  Bigelow  to  see  her,  and  she  placed  her  business 
matters  in  his  hands.  The  Judge  was  very  much 
struck  with  her  person  and  manner,  and  told  me  the 
day  after  his  first  meeting  with  her  that  she  came 
nearer  to  his  ideal  of  a  lady  than  any  woman  he  had 
ever  met;  and  as  for  the  daughter  she  seemed  more 
like  a  picture  he  had  once  seen  than  a  piece  of  real 
flesh  and  blood.  I  smiled  at  the  Judge's  enthusiasm, 
but  did  not  wonder  at  the  impression  he  had  received. 

Other  characters  in  our  story  now  claim  attention, 
and  we  must  turn  to  them.  After  Henry  "Wallingford 
had  gained  the  mastery  over  himself — the  struggle 
was  wild,  but  brief — he  resumed  his  office  duties  as 
usual,  and  few  noticed  any  change  in  him,  except  that 
he  withdrew  even  more  than  ever  into  himself.  I  met 
him  occasionally,  and  observed  him  closely.  In  my 
eyes  there  was  a  marked  difference  in  the  aspect  of 
his  face.  It  had  an  expression  of  patient  suffering  at 
times — and  again  I  saw  in  it  a  most  touching  sadness. 

The  dashing  nephew  of  Judge  Bigelow  offered  him 
self  to  Squire  Floyd's  daughter  in  about  a  week  after 
her  rejection  of  Wallingford's  suit,  and  was  accepted. 
I  became  immediately  cognizant  of  the  fact  through 
my  wife,  who  had  the  news  from  Delia's  aunt,  Mrs. 
Dean.  A  day  or  two  afterwards  I  met  her  in  com 
pany  with  young  Dewey,  and  observed  her  closely. 
Alas  !  In  my  eyes  the  work  of  moral  retrocession  had 
already  begun.  She  was  gay  and  chatty,  and  her 


98  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,    AND   NOW. 

countenance  fresh  and  blooming.  But  I  missed  some 
thing — something  the  absence  of  which  awakened  a 
sigh  of  regret.  Ralph  was  very  lover-like  in  his  de 
portment,  fluttering  about  Delia,  complimenting  her, 
and  showing  her  many  obtrusive  attentions.  But  eyes 
that  were  in  the  habit  of  looking  below  the  surface  of 
things,  saw  no  heart  in  it  all. 

Squire  Floyd 'was  delighted  with  his  daughter's  fine 
prospects;  and  he  and  Judge  Bigelow  drew  their 
heads  together  over  the  affair  in  a  cosy  and  confiden 
tial  way  very  pleasant  to  both  of  them.  The  Judge 
was  eloquent  touching  his  nephew's  fine  qualities  and 
splendid  prospects ;  and  congratulated  the  Squire,  time 
and  again,  on  his  daughter's  fortunate  matrimonial 
speculation.  He  used  the  word  which  was  significa- 
tive'beyond  any  thing  that  entered  his  imagination. 

A  few  days  after  the  engagement  Ralph  Dewey  re 
turned  to  New  York.  The  wedding-day  had  not  been 
fixed ;  but  the  marriage,  as  understood  by  all  parties, 
was  to  take  place  some  time  during  the  next  winter. 

From  that  time  I  noticed  a  change  in  Delia.  She 
grew  silent  in  company,  and  had  an  absent  way  about 
her  that  contrasted  strongly  with  her  former  social 
disposition.  Young  people  rallied  her  in  the  usual 
style  about  her  heart  being  absent  with  the  beloved 
one,  but  I  read  the  signs  differently.  It  could  not  but 
follow,  that  a  soul,  endowed  like  hers,  would  have  mis 
givings  in  view  of  an  alliance  with  one  like  Ralph 
Dewey.  What  was  there  in  him  to  satisfy  a  true  wo 
man's  yearnings  for  conjunction  with  a  kindred  nature? 
Nothing !  He  was  all  outside  as  to  good.  A  mere 


RALPH    DEWEY.  99 

selfish,  superficial,  speculating  man  of  the  world. 
While  she  had  a  heart  capable  of  the  deepest  and 
truest  affection.  Would  he  make  the  fitting  comple 
ment  to  her  life  ?  Alas  !  No  !  That  were  a  thing 
impossible. 

During  the  few  months  that  preceded  this  marriage, 
I  often  heard  its  promise  discussed  by  my  wife  and 
Mrs.  Dean,  neither  of  whom  had  any  strong  liking  for 
the  young  New  York  merchant. 

"It's  rny  opinion/'  said  Mrs.  Dean,  as  she  sat  with 
my  wife  one  evening,  about  two  months  after  the  en 
gagement  had  taken  place,  "that  Ralph  has  more 
froth  than  substance  about  him.  He  really  talks, 
sometimes,  as  if  he  had  the  world  in  a  sling  and  could 
toss  it  up  among  the  stars.  As  far  as  my  observation 
goes,  such  people  flourish  only  for  a  season." 

"If  Delia  were  a  child  of  mine,"  said  my  good 
Constance,  in  her  earnest  way,  "  I  would  a  thousand 
times  rather  trust  her  with  Henry  Wallingford  than 
with  Ralph  Dewey." 

"  Yes,  and  a  thousand  millions  of  times,"  responded 
Mrs.  Dean.  "  He  is  a  man.  You  know  just  what  he 
is,  and  where  he  is.  But,  as  for  this  splashing  nephew 
of  Judge  Bigelow's — who  knows  what's  below  the  sur 
face?  Delia's  father  is  all  taken  up  with  him,  and 
thinks  the  match  a  splendid  one.  Sister  don't  say 
much ;  but  I  can  see  that  she  has  her  misgivings.  I 
can  talk  to  you  freely,  you  know." 

"I  don't  think,"  said  I,  "that  Delia  has  grown 
more  cheerful  since  her  engagement.  Brides  expect 
ant  ought  to  feel  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long." 


100 

"More  cheerful?  Oh,  dear,  no!  She  isn't  the 
same  that  she  was  at  all ;  but  mopes  about  more  than 
half  of  her  time.  It's  just  my  opinion — spoken  be 
tween  friends — that  she  cares,  now,  a  great  deal  more 
for  Henry  than  she  does  for  Ralph." 

"Do  they  ever  meet?"  I  inquired. 

"Not  very  often." 

"They  have  met?" 

"  Yes,  several  times." 

"  Have  you  seen  them  together?" 

«  Oh,  yes." 

"How  does  she  act  towards  him?" 

"Not  always  the  same.  Sometimes  she  is  talka 
tive,  and  sometimes  reserved — sometimes  as  gay  as  a 
lark,  and  sometimes  sober  enough ;  as  if  there  were 
such  a  weight  on  her  spirits,  that  she  could  not  smile 
without  an  effort." 

"  Does  the  fact  of  his  presence  make  any  change  in 
her?"  I  inquired.  "What  I  mean  is,  if  she  were 
lively  in  spirits  before  he  came  in,  would  she  grow  se 
rious — or  if  serious,  grow  excited?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  always  makes  a  change.  I've  known 
her,  after  being  very  quiet,  and  hardly  having  any 
thing  to  say,  though  in  the  midst  of  young  company, 
grow  all  at  once  as  merry  as  a  cricket,  and  laugh  and 
joke  in  a  wild  sort  of  way.  And  again,  when  she  has 
been  in  one  of  her  old,  pleasant  states  of  mind  I  have 
noticed  that  she  all  at  once  drew  back  into  herself;  I 
could  trace  the  cause  to  only  this — the  presence  of 
Henry  Wallingford.  But  this  doesn't  often  happen, 
for  he  rarely  shows  himself  in  company." 


HEART-DISCIPLINE.  101 

'•  Is  there  anything  noticeable  about  Henry  when 
they  meet?"  I  asked. 

"Not  to  an  ordinary  observer,"  replied  Mrs.  Dean. 
"  But  I  look  with  sharper  eyes  than  most  people.  .  Yes, 
there  is  something  noticeable.  He  always  puts  him 
self  in  her  way,  but  with  a  kind  of  forced,  resolute 
manner,  as  if  the  act  were  a  trial  of  strength,  and  in 
volved  a  stern  heart-discipline.  And  this,  I  think,  is 
just  the  real  state  of  the  case.  He  has  deliberately 
and  resolutely  entered  upon  the  work  of  unwinding 
from  his  heart  the  cord  which  love  has  thrown  around  it 
in  so  many  in tertwisted  folds.  So  I  read  him.  To  break 
it  by  sudden  force,  would  leave  so  many  unwound 
portions  behind,  that  the  memory  of  her  might  sadden 
the  whole  of  his  after-life.  And  so  he  is  learning  to 
grow  indifferent  towards  her.  To  search  in  her  for 
such  things  as  repel,  instead  of  for  those  that  charm 
the  heart." 

"A  dangerous  experiment,"  said  my  wife,  "  for  one 
who  has  loved  so  deeply." 

."It  would  be  to  most  men,"  I  remarked.  "But 
there  is  stuff  about  Henry — the  stuff  that  strong,  per 
sistent,  successful  men  are  made  of.  If  he  has  begun 
this  work,  he  will  complete  it  certainly." 

A  few  weeks  afterwards,  I  had  an  opportunity  of 
seeing  them  together,  and  I  improved  it  to  observe 
them  closely.  It  was  in  a  mixed  company  at  the 
house  of  Judge  Bigelow.  Wallingford  came  in  rather 
late.  I  was  conversing  with  Delia  when  he  entered 
the  room,  and  we  were  at  an  interesting  point  in  the 
subject  under  consideration.  I  noticed,  all  at  once,  a 


102  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 

hesitation  and  confusion  of  thought,  as  her  eyes  rested, 
with  a  sudden  interest,  on  some  object  in  the  room. 
Glancing  around,  I  saw  the  young  man.  We  went  on 
with  our  conversation,  Delia  rallying  herself,  as  I  could 
see,  with  an  effort.  But  she  talked  no  longer  from 
thought,  only  from  memory — uttering  mere  truisms 
and  common-places.  She  put  on  more  animation,  and 
affected  a  deeper  interest ;  but  I  was  not  deceived. 

We  were  still  in  conversation,  when  Wallirigford 
joined  us.  I  saw  him  fix  his  eyes,  as  they  met, 
searchingly  upon  her  face,  and  saw  her  eyes  droop 
away  from  his.  He  was  fully  self-possessed ;  she  not 
at  ease.  His  mind  was  clear  ;  hers  in  some  confusion. 
I  remained  some  time  near  them,  listening  to  their 
conversation,  and  joining  in  occasionally.  Never  before 
had  I  seen  him  appear  so  well,  nor  her  to  such  poor 
advantage.  She  tried  to  act  a  part — he  was  himself. 
I  noticed,  as  he  led  the  conversation,  that  he  kept 
away  from  the  esthetic,  and  held  her  thought  in  the 
region  of  moral  causes ;  that  he  dwelt  on  the  ends 
and  purposes  of  life,  as  involving  everything.  Now 
and  then  she  essayed  a  feeble  argument,  or  met  some 
of  his  propositions  with  light  banter.  But  with  a  word 
he  obliterated  the  sophism — and  with  a  glance  repressed 
the  badinage.  I  think  she  could  never  before  have  so 
felt  the  superiority  of  this  man,  whose  pure  love — 
almost  worship — she  had  put  aside  as  a  thing  of  light 
importance ;  and  I  think  the  interview  helped  him  in 
the  work  upon  which  he  had  entered,  that  of  obliterat 
ing  from  his  heart  all  traces  of  her  image. 

After  this  interview,  they  did  not  draw  together 


WALLINGFORD   AND   DEWEY. 


103 


again  during  the  evening.  Delia  tried  to  be  gay  and 
indifferent ;  but  he  acted  himself  out  just  as  he  was. 
I  did  not  observe  that  he  was  more  social  than  usual, 
or  that  he  mingled  more  than  was  his  wont  with  the 
young  ladies  present.  For  most  of  the  time,  he  kept, 
as  was  usual  with  him,  in  company  and  in  conversation 
with  his  own  sex. 

I  could  not  but  pity  Delia  Floyd.  It  was  plain  to 
me  that  she  was  waking  up  to  the  sad  error  she  had 
committed — an  error,  the  consequences  of  which  would 
go  with  her  through  life.  Very,  very  far  was  she  from 
being  indifferent  to  Wallingford — that  I  could  plainly 
see. 

During  the  winter,  Ralph  came  up  frequently  from 
New  York  to  visit  his  bride  to  be.  As  he  was  the  ne 
phew  of  Judge  Bigelow,  he  and  Wallingford  \vere,  as  a 
thing  of  course,  thrown  often  together  during  these 
visits.  It  can  hardly  excite  wonder,  that  Wallingford 
maintained  a  reserved  and  distant  demeanor  towards 
the  young  man,  steadily  repelling  all  familiarity,  yet 
always  treating  him  with  such  politeness  and  respect 
that  no  cause  of  offence  could  appear.  On  the  part 
of  Dewey,  it  may  be  said  that  he  saw  little  in  the  grave 
plodder  among  dusty  law  books  and  discolored  parch 
ments,  that  won  upon  his  regard.  He  looked  upon  him 
as  a  young  man  good  enough  in  his  way — a  very  small 

way,  in  his  estimation — good  enough  for  S ,  and 

small  enough  for  a  country  town  lawyer.  He  would 
have  put  on  towards  him  a  patronizing  air,  and  tried 
to  excite  in  his  mind  a  nobler  ambition  than  to  move 
in  our  circumscribed  sphere,  if  something  in  the  young 


104  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND   NOW. 

man's  steady,  penetrating,  half-mysterious  eye  had  not 
always  held  him  back. 

"I  never  can  talk  with  that  young  associate  of 
yours,  uncle/'  he  would  say,  now  and  then,  to  Judge 
Bigelow,  uand  I  can't  just  make  him  out.  Is  he 
stupid,  or  queer?" 

The  Judge  would  smile,  or  laugh  quietly  to  himself, 
or  perhaps  answer  in  this  wise : 

"  I  think  Henry  understands  himself.  Still  waters, 
you  know,  run  deep." 

One  day  in  February,  on  the  occasion  of  a  periodi 
cal  visit  to  S ,  young  Dewey  called  in  at  Judge 

Bigelow's  office,  and  finding  Wallingford  alone,  sat 
down  and  entered  into  as  familiar  a  talk  with  him  as 
was  possible,  considering  how  little  they  had  in  com 
mon.  Ralph  had  a  purpose  in  view,  and  as  soon  as  he 
saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  Wallingford's  mind  in  the 
right  mood,  said — 

"I  am  going  to  ask  a  particular  favor,  and  you 
must  not  refuse." 

"If  I  can  serve  you  in  any  thing,  it  will  be  my 
pleasure  to  do  so,"  was  the  ready  answer. 

"  You  know  that  I  am  to  be  married  next  month  ?  " 

"  So  I  have  heard,"  replied  Wallingford. 

"  You  will  stand  my  groomsman  ?     Don't  say  no  ! " 

He  had  seen  an  instant  negative  in  the  young  man's 
face. 

"Almost  any  thing  else,  but  not  that!"  replied 
Henry,  speaking  with  some  feeling.  He  was  thrown 
off  his  guard  by  so  unexpected  a  request. 

"  Come  now,  my  good  friend,  don't  take  the  matter 


AN   INSULT  AND  A  BLOW.  105 

so  much  to  heart !"  said  Dewey,  in  a  light  way. 
"  Plenty  of  good  fish  in  the  sea  yefr — as  good  as  ever 
were  caught.  You  must  forgive  the  girl  for  liking  me 
the  best." 

"  You  jest  on  a  grave  subject,"  said  Wallingford, 
his  face  growing  pale,  but  his  eyes,  a  little  dilated, 
riveting  his  companion's  where  he  stood. 

"  No,  I  am  in  earnest,"  said  Dewey,  with  something 
in  his  manner  that  was  offensive. 

"  Jest  or  earnest,  your  familiarity  is  out  of  place 
with  me,"  retorted  Wallingford,  with  a  sternness  of 
manner,  that  quickened  the  flow  of  bad  blood  in 
Dewey's  heart. 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  take  on  airs  !"  replied  the  other 
with  a  sneer  of  contempt.  Then  muttering  to  him 
self,  yet  loud  enough  to  be  heard, — "  I  didn't  suppose 
the  puppy  would  growl  at  a  familiar  pat  on  the  head." 

This  was  too  much  for  Wallingford.  At  another 
time,  he  might  have  borne  it  with  a  manly  self-posses 
sion.  But  only  an  hour  before  he  had  met  Miss  Floyd 
in  the  street,  and  the  look  she  then  gave  him  had 
stirred  his  heart,  and  left  a  tinge  of  shadowy  regret  on 
his  feelings.  He  was,  therefore,  in  no  mood  to  bear 
trifling,  much  less  insult.  Scarcely  had  the  offensive 
words  passed  Dewey's  lips,  when  a  blow  in  the  face 
staggered  him  back  against  the  wall.  Instantly  recov 
ering  himself,  he  sprang  towards  Wallingford  in  blind 
rage,  and  struck  at  him  with  a  savage  energy  ;  but  the 
latter  stepped  aside,  and  let  his  assailant  come,  with 
stunning  force,  against  the  wall  at  the  other  side  of 
the  office,  when  he  fell  to  the  floor. 


106  TWENTY  YEAKS  AGO,    AND   NOW. 

At  this  instant,  Judge  Bigelow  came  in. 

"Henry!  Ralph!"  he  exclaimed — "what  is  the 
meaning  of  this  ?" 

"  Your  nephew  insulted  me,  and  in  the  heat  of  anger 
I  struck  him  in  the  face.  In  attempting  to  return  that 
blow,  he  missed  his  aim,  and  fell  against  the  wall,  as 
you  see." 

Wallingford  spoke  without  excitement,  but  in  a  stern, 
resolute  way.  By  this  time,  Dewey  was  on  his  feet 
again.  The  sight  of  his  uncle,  and  the  unflinching 
aspect  of  the  person  he  had  ventured  to  insult,  had  the 
effect  to  cool  off  his  excitement  many  degrees. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  young  men  ?"  sternly 
repeated  Judge  Bigelow,  looking  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  I  have  answered  your  question  as  far  as  I  am  con 
cerned,"  replied  Henry. 

•"  Ralph  !  Speak  !  Did  you  offer  him  an  insult?" 

To  this  demand,  the  nephew  replied,  with  no  abate 
ment  of  his  originally  offensive  manner — 

"  If  he  chooses  to  consider  my  words  as  ^an  insult, 
let  him  do  so.  I  shall  in  no  case  take  them  back." 

"  What  did  you  say  ?" 

There  was  an  imperative  force  in  the  Judge's  man 
ner. 

Dewey  was  silent. 

"  What  did  he  &ay," — Judge  Bigelow  turned  to 
Wallingford,  "  that  you  should  answer  it  with  a  blow  ?" 

"If  he  is  satisfied  with  the  answer,"  replied  the  lat 
ter,  "  the  case  can  rest  where  it  is.  If.  not,  I  am 
ready  to  meet  him  on  any  appeal.  He  will  find  me  no 
trifler." 


A  NOTE  OF  APOLOGY.  107 

The  Judge  turned  again  to  his  nephew. 

"  Ralph !  I  insist  upon  having  this  matter  explained. 
I  know  Henry  too  well  to  believe  that  he  would  strike 
you,  unless  there  had  been  strong  provocation." 

"Perhaps  he  regarded  it  as  such  ;  I  did  not,"  said 
Dewey. 

"  If  he  is  satisfied  with  his  chastisement,  there  is  no 
occasion  to  press  him  farther,  Judge."  Wallingford 
was  provoked  to  this  by  the  young  man's  cool  imperti 
nence. 

Dewey  made  a  movement  as  if  about  to  rush  upon 
Wallingford,  but  the  Judge  interposed  his  body  to  keep 
them  apart.  The  appearance  of  a  fourth  party  at 
this  juncture,  in  the  person  of  Squire  Floyd,  the  pro 
spective  father-in-law  of  one  of  the  belligerents, 
changed  materially  the  aspect  of  affairs. 

"  Good-morning,  Squire,"  said  Wallingford,  with  a 
quickly  assumed  cheerfulness  of  manner,  smiling  in 
his  usual  grave  way. 

Both  the  Judge  and  his  nephew  saw  reason  to  imitate 
the  example  of  Wallingford,  and  thus  throw  up  a  blind 
before  the  eyes  of  Squire  Floyd,  who  thought  he  per 
ceived  something  wrong  as  he  came  in,  but  was  after 
wards  inclined  to  doubt  the  evidence  of  his  senses. 

Wallingford  retired  in  a  few  moments.  When  he 
came  back  to  the  office  an  hour  afterwards,  he  found 
a  note  of  apology  .on  his  table,  accompanied  by  a  re 
quest  that  so  unpleasant  an  incident  as  the  one  which 
had  just  occurred,  might  be  suffered  to  pass  into  obli 
vion.  No  acknowledgment  of  this  communication 
was  made  by  the  young  lawyer.  He  felt  the  strongest 


108  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 

kind  of  repugnance  towards  Dewey,  and  could  not 
gain  his  own  consent  to  have  any  intercourse  with  him. 
-His  position,  as  an  associate  with  Judge  Bigelow,  oc 
casionally  brought  him  in  contact  with  his  nephew, 
who  recognized  him  always  in  a  respectful  manner. 
But  Wallingford  held  him  ever  coldly  at  a  distance. 


MARRIAGE   OF  DELIA  FLOYD.  109 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  marriage  of  Delia  Floyd  was  an  event  in  our 
quiet  town.  It  was  celebrated  at  the  house  of  her 
father,  in  the  presence  of  a  large  company,  who  were 
invited  to  witness  the  ceremony,  and  take  part  in  the 
attendant  festivities.  The  match  was  regarded  gene 
rally  as  a  most  desirable  one  for  the  young  lady ;  and 
there  was  more  than  one  mother  present  who  envied 
the  good  fortune  which  had  given  such  a  son-in-law  to 
Mrs.  Floyd.  I  heard  many  snatches  of  conversation, 
half  aside,  in  which  marvelous  things  were  related,  or 
suggested,  touching  the  bridegroom's  fortune  and  the 
splendid  home  he  had  prepared  for  his  bride.  He  was 
looked  upon  as  a  prospective  millionaire,  and  imagina 
tion  pictured  Delia  as  the  jeweled  mistress  of  a  palace 
home.  Few  seemed  to  think  of  any  thing  beyond  the 
promised  worldly  advantage. 

"I  am  glad  that  your  daughter  has  married  so 
well." 

"  Let  me  congratulate  you,  Squire  Floyd,  on  this 
splendid  match." 

"  It  is  not  often,  Mrs.  Floyd,  that  a  mother  sees  her 
daughter  go  forth  into  the  world  with  such  brilliant 
prospects." 


110  TWENTY    YEARS   AGO,    AND   NOW. 

"  You  have  all  that  your  heart  can  desire,  so  far  as 
Delia  is  concerned,  Mrs.  Floyd." 

J*  You  are  the  envy  of  mothers." 

And  so  I  heard  the  changes  rung  on  all  sides  of  me, 
and  from  the  lips  of  people  who  might  have  looked 
deeper  if  they  had  taken  the  trouble  to  use  their  eyes. 

To  me,  the  wedding  was  full  of  sad  suggestions.  It 
was  one  of  those  social  self-sacrifices,  as  common  now 
as  then,  in  which  the  victim  goes  self-impelled  to  the 
altar,  and  lays  upon  its  consuming  fires  the  richest 
dower  of  womanhood. 

I  listened  to  the  vows  that  were  made  on  this  occa 
sion,  and  felt  a  low  thrill  of  repulsion  as  words  of  such 
solemn  import  trembled  on  the  air,  for  too  well  I  knew 
that  a  union  of  souls  in  a  true  marriage,  such  as  Delia 
Floyd  might  consummate,  was  impossible  here.  Could 
she  be  happy  in  this  marriage  ?  I  gave  to  my  own 
question  an  emphatic  "  No  ! "  She  might  have  a  gay, 
brilliant,  exciting  life ;  but  to  that  deep  peace  which  is 
given  to  loving  hearts,  and  which,  in  hours  of  isolation 
and  loneliness,  she  would  desire  with  an  irrepressible 
longing,  she  must  forever  be  a  stranger. 

I  looked  into  her  beautiful  young  face  as  she  stood 
receiving  the  congratulations  of  friends,  and  felt  as  I 
had  never  felt  before  on  such  an  occasion.  Instinc 
tively  my  thought  ran  questioning  along  the  future, 
But  no  hopeful  answer  was  returned.  How  was  she  to  ad 
vance  in  that  inner-life  development  through  which  the 
true  woman  is  perfected  ?  I  pushed  the  question  aside. 
It  was  too  painful.  Had  she  been  one  of  the  great  com 
pany  of  almost  soulless  women — if  I  may  use  such  strong 


WALLINGFORD   AT   THE    BRIDAL.  Ill 

language — who  pass,  yearly,  through  legal  forms  into  the 
mere  semblance  of  a  marriage,  I  might  have  looked  on 
with  indifference,  for  then,  the  realization  would,  in  all 
probability,  be  equal  to  the  promise.  But  Delia  Floyd 
was  of  a  different  spiritual  organization.  She  had 
higher  capabilities  and  nobler  aspirations ;  and  if  the 
one  found  no  true  sphere  of  development,  while  the 
other  was  doomed  to  beat  its  wings  vainly  amid  the 
lower  atmospheres  of  life,  was  happiness  in  the  case 
even  a  possibility  ? 

Among  the  guests  was  Wallingford.  It  was  six 
months,  almost  to  a  day,  since  the  dearest  hope  in  life 
he  had  ever  cherished  went  suddenly  out,  and  left  him, 
for  a  season,  in  the  darkness  of  despair.  I  did  not 
expect  to  see  him  on  'this  occasion  ;  and  there  was 
another,  I  think,  who  as  little  anticipated  his  presence 
— I  mean  the  bride.  But  he  had  shared  in  the  invi 
tations,  and  came  up  to  witness  the  sacrifice.  To  see, 
what  a  few  months  before  was  to  him  the  most  precious 
thing  in  life,  pass  into  the  full  possession  of  another. 
Had  not  the  fine  gold  grown  dim  in  his  eyes  ?  It  had 
—dim  with  the  tarnish  that  better  natures  receive 
when  they  consent  to  dwell  with  inferior  spirits,  and 
breathe  in  an  atmosphere  loaded  with  earthly  exhala 
tions.  It  would  have  been  the  highest  delight  of  his  life 
to  have  ascended  with  her  into  the  pure  regions,  where 
thought  builds  tabernacles  and  establishes  its  dwelling- 
places.  To  have  walked  onward,  side  by  side,  in  a 
dear  life  companionship,  towards  the  goal  of  eternal 
spiritual  oneness.  But  she  had  willed  it  otherwise ; 
and  now  he  had  come,  resolutely,  to  bear  the  pain  of  a 


112 

final  sundering  of  all  bonds,  that  his  soul  might  free 
itself  from  her  soul  completely  and  forever. 

I  first  noticed  him  as  the  bridal  party  entered  the 
room,  and  took  their  places  in  front  of  the  clergyman 
who  was  to  officiate  on  the  occasion.  He  occupied  a 
position  that  gave  him  a  clear  view  of  Delia's  face, 
while  he  was  removed  from  general  observation. 
Almost  from  the  commencement  to  the  ending  of  the 
ceremony  his  gaze  rested  on  her  countenance.  His 
head  was  thrown  a  little  forward,  his  brows  slightly 
contracted,  his  lips  firmly  set,  and  his  eyes  fixed  as  if 
the  object  upon  which  he  was  gazing  held  him  by  an 
irresistible  fascination.  I  was  so  much  interested  in 
him  that  I  scarcely  looked  at  the  bride  during  the 
ceremony.  At  last,  the  minister,  in  conclusion, 
announced  the  twain  to  be  husband  and  wife.  I  saw 
Wallingford  »give  a  slight  start  as  if  a  tensely  strung 
chord  of  feeling  had  been  jarred.  A  moment  more 
and  the  spell  was  broken  !  Every  lineament  of  his 
countenance  showed  this.  The  stern  aspect  gave  way 
— light  trembled  over  the  softening  features — the  body 
stood  more  erect  as  if  a  great  pressure  had  been  re 
moved. 

I  noticed  that  he  did  not  hold  back  in  the  excite 
ment  of  congratulation  that  followed  the  ceremony.  I 
was  near  him  when  he  took  the  hand  of  Delia,  and 
heard  him  say — not — "I  congratulate  you" — but 
u  May  your  life  be  a  happy  one."  The  tone  was  ear 
nest  and  feeling,  such  as  a  brother  might  use  to  a  be 
loved  sister.  I  held  that  tone  long  afterwards  in  my 
memory,  studying  its  signification.  It  had  in  it  noth- 


CONGRATULATIONS   TO   THE   BRIDE.  113 

ing  of  regret,  or  pain,  or  sadness,  as  if  he  were  losing 
something,  but  simply  expressed  the  regard  and  tender 
interest  of  a  sincere  well  wisher.  And  so  that  great 
trial  was  at  an  end  for  him.  He  had  struggled  man 
fully  with  a  great  enemy  to  his  peace,  and  this  was 
his  hour  of  triumph. 

With  the  bride's  state  of  mind,  as  read  in  external 
signs,  I  was  far  from  being  satisfied.  Marriage,  in  any 
case,  to  one  who  thinks  and  feels,  is  a  thing  of  serious 
import ;  and  even  the  habitually  thoughtless  can 
hardly  take  its  solemn  vows  upon  their  lips  without 
falling  into  a  sober  mood.  We  are,  therefore,  not  sur 
prised  to  see  emotion  put  on  signs  of  pain — like  April 
showers  that  weep  away  into  sunshine.  But  in  Delia's 
face  I  saw  something  that  went  deeper  than  all  this. 

"  There  is  no  one  here,"  said  I,  taking  her  hand, 
and  holding  it  tightly  in  mine,  "  who  wishes  you  well 
in  the  future  more  sincerely  than  I  do." 

"  I  know  it,  Doctor,"  she  answered,  returning  the 
warm  grasp  I  gave  her.  Her  eyes  rested  steadily  in 
mine,  and  saw  a  shadow  in  them. 

"  We  are  sorry  to  lose  you  from  S .  Indeed 

we  cannot  afford  to  lose  you." 

"  She  is  wanted,"  spoke  up  her  young  husband  a 
little  proudly,  "  to  grace  a  wider  and  more  brilliant 
sphere  of  life." 

"  It  is  not  the  brilliant  sphere  that  is  always  the 
happiest,"  said  I.  "  Life's  truest  pleasures  come  oft- 
ener  to  quiet  home  circles  even  among  the  lowly,  than 
to  gilded  palaces  where  fortune's  favorites  reside." 

"  It  is   not   to  external  condition,"  the  bride  re- 

8 


114  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND   NOW. 

marked,  "that  we  are  to  look  for  happiness."  I 
thought  her  voice  had  in  it  a  pensive  tone,  as  if  she 
were  not  wholly  satisfied  with  the  brilliant  promise  that 
lay  before  her.  "  You  know,  Doctor,  we  have  talked 
that  over  more  than  once  in  our  lives." 

"  Yes,  Delia ;  and  it  is  a  truth  which  we  ought 
never  to  forget — one  that  I  trust  you  and  your  hus 
band  will  lay  up  in  your  hearts." 

I  turned  to  the  young  man  desiring  my  admonition 
to  reach  him  also. 

"  Perhaps  I  might  differ  something  from  this  sage 
conclusion,"  he  answered  a  little  flippantly.  "  As  far 
as  I  can  see,  the  external  condition  has  a  great  deal 
to  do  with  our  happiness.  I  am  very  sure,  that  if  I 
were  situated  as  some  people  are  whom  I  know,  I 
would  be  miserable.  So  you  see,  Doctor,  I  have  my 
doubts  touching  this  theory  of  yours  and  Delia's." 

"  Time,  I  think,  will  demonstrate  its  truth,"  I  said, 
in  a  graver  tone,  and  turned  from  them  to  give  place 
to  those  who  could  talk  in  a  lighter  strain  than  was 
possible  for  me  on  the  occasion. 

During  the  evening  I  saw  Wallingford  more  than 
once  in  conversation  with  the  bride  ;  but  only  when 
she  happened  to  be  a  little  separated  from  her  husband, 
towards  whom  his  manner  was  coldly  polite.  The  two 
young  men,  after  the  scene  in  Judge  Bigelow's  office, 
only  kept  up,  for  the  sake  of  others,  the  shadow  of 
acquaintanceship.  Between  them  there  was  a  strong 
mutual  repulsion  which  neither  sought  to  overcome. 

As  I  remarked  I  saw  Wallingford  more  than  once 
in  conversation  with  the  bride.  But  nothing  in  his 


BAD   AUGURY.  115 

manner  indicated  any  sentiment  beyond  that  of  friend 
ship.  He  was  polite,  cheerful,  and  at  his  ease.  But 
it  was  different  with  her.  She  was  not  at  her  ease  in 
his  company,  and  yet,  I  could  see  that  his  attention 
was  grateful — even  pleasant. 

The  augury  was  not  good.  As  I  read  the  signs, 
Delia  Floyd,  when  she  passed  from  maidenhood  to 
wifehood,  departed  from  the  path  that  led  to  happiness 
in  this  world.  And  I  said  to  myself  as  I  pondered 
her  future — "  May  the  disappointments  and  sorrows 
that  are  almost  sure  to  come,  turn  her  feet  aside  into 
the  right  way  at  last !" 


116  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

ON  the  day  following,  the  young  husband  bore  his 
bride  away  to  grace  the  prouder  home  that  awaited 
her  in  New  York ;  and  affairs  in  our  town  settled  them 
selves  down  into  the  old  routine. 

During  the  few  months  that  have  passed  since  the 
opening  of  our  story,  the  only  matter  that  has  occurred, 
of  any  interest  to  the  reader,  at  the  Allen  House,  is 
the  fact  that  Judge  Bigelow  has  undertaken  the  man 
agement  of  Mrs.  Montgomery's  affairs,  and  the  estab 
lishment  of  her  claim  to  the  possession,  as  only  heir, 
of  the  whole  of  Captain  Allen's  property.  Some  legal 
difficulties,  bearing  upon  her  identification  as  his  sis 
ter,  were  in  the  way  ;  and  in  the  effort  to  remove  these, 
there  had  been  considerable  correspondence  with  per 
sons  in  England. 

The  first  fact  to  be  clearly  proved  was  the  solemni 
zation  of  a  marriage  between  Mrs.  Montgomery's  mo 
ther  and  the  elder  Captain  Allen.  Next,  the  identity 
of  Mrs.  Montgomery  as  her  child.  No  marriage  cer 
tificate,  nor  any  record  of  the  fact,  as  to  the  exact 
time  and  place,  were  known  to  be  in  existence ;  and 
without  them,  or  evidence  of  a  very  conclusive  cha 
racter,  the  title  of  Mrs.  Montgomery  could  not  be 
clearly  established. 


THE  TRUSTY  AGENT.  117 

This,  Judge  Bigelow  stated  to  her  in  the  beginning ; 
but,  up  to  this  time,  no  such  evidence  had  been  found. 

Mrs.  Montgomery's  health  was  not  good,  and  as  she 
required  occasional  medical  aid,  my  visits  to  the  Allen 
House  were  continued.  The  more  intimately  I  came 
to  know  this  lady,  the  higher  did  she  rise  in  my  esteem. 
She  united  strength  of  mind  with  clearness  of  percep 
tion:  and  decision  of  character  with  prudence  and 
justice.  She  had,  likewise,  a  depth  and  tenderness  of 
feeling  that  often  exhibited  itself  in  beautiful  inci 
dents.  The  dignity  of  manner,  which  at  first  seemed 
touched  with  hauteur,  now  only  gave  grace  to  her  fine 
proportions. 

She  had,  from  the  beginning,  spoken  to  me  without 
reserve  of  her  affairs,  in  which  I  naturally  took  deep 
interest.  One  day  she  said : — 

"  Doctor,  I  wish  to  get  your  opinion  in  regard  to  an 
individual  whom  Judge  Bigelow  proposes  to  send  out 
to  England  for  me  on  important  business.  He  is  a 
young  man,  associated  with  him,  as  I  understand  it, 
professionally. 

"Mr.  Wallingford,  you  mean?'* 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  name,  I  believe.  Do  you  know 
him?" 

"Very  well." 

"Is  he  prudent,  intelligent,  and  reliable?" 

"I  think  so." 

"You  only  think  so,  Doctor?" 

"I  can  speak  in  stronger  terms.  As  far  aa  one 
can  know  another,  I  am  ready  to  say  that  he  is  pru 
dent,  intelligent,  and  reliable.  If  I  had  important 


118  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND  NOW. 

business  to  transact  at  a  distant  point,  and  needed  a 
trusty  agent,  I  would  select  him  before  any  other  man 
in  S ." 

"  I  wish  no  better  testimony,  Doctor,  and  am  glad 
to  know  that  I  can  procure  an  agent  so  well  qualified." 

"  Have  you  seen  him?"  I  inquired. 

"  No.  But  Judge  Bigelow  is  to  bring  him  here  to 
day,  in  order  that  I  may  see  and  converse  with  him." 

"  You  will  find  him,"  said  I,  "  a  young  man  of  few 
words  and  unobtrusive  manners — but  solid  as  a  rock. 
I  have  seen  him  under  circumstances  calculated  to  test 
the  character  of  any  man." 

"What  are  the  circumstances,  if  you  are  free  to 
speak  of  them?"  asked  Mrs.  Montgomery.  "We  get 
always  a  truer  estimate  of  a  man,  when  we  see  him  in 
some  great  battle  of  life ;  for  then,  his  real  qualities 
and  resources  become  apparent." 

I  thought  for  a  little  while  before  answering.  It 
did  not  seem  just  right  to  draw  aside  the  veil  that 
strangers'  eyes  might  look  upon  a  life-passage  such  as 
was  written  in  Wallingford's  Book  of  Memory.  The 
brief  but  fierce  struggle  was  over  with  him ;  and  he 
was  moving  steadily  onward,  sadder,  no  doubt,  for  the 
experience,  and  wiser,  no  doubt.  But  the  secret  was 
his  own,  and  I  felt  that  no  one  ought  to  meddle  there 
with.  Still,  a  relation  of  the  fact,  showing  how  deeply 
the  man  could  feel,  and  how  strong  he  was  in  self- 
mastery,  could  not  but  raise  him  in  the  estimation  of 
Mrs.  Montgomery,  and  increase  her  confidence. 

"It  is  hardly  fair,"  said  I,  "to  bring  up  the  cir 
cumstances  of  a  man's  life  over  which  he  has  drawn  a 


RAISING  THE   VEIL.  119 

veil ;  and  which  are  sacred  to  himself  alone.  In  this 
case,' however,  with  the  end  of  enabling  you  more  fully 
to  know  the  person  you  think  of  sending  abroad  on  an 
important  service,  I  will  relate  an  occurrence  that  can 
not  fail  to  awaken  in  your  mind  an  interest  for  the 
young  man,  such  as  we  always  feel  for  those  who  have 
passed  through  deep  suffering." 

Blanche  was  sitting  by  her  mother.  Indeed,  the 
two  were  almost  inseparable  companions.  It  was  a 
rare  thing  to  find  them  apart.  I  saw  her  face  kindle 
with  an  earnest  curiosity. 

"  Judge  Bigelow's  nephew  was  married,  recently," 
I  said. 

"So  the  Judge  informed  me.  He  spoke  very 
warmly  of  his  nephew,  who  is  a  merchant  in  New 
York,  I  think  he  said." 

"  He  is  a  partner  in  a  mercantile  firm  there.  The 
bride  was  Squire  Floyd's  daughter ;  a  very  superior 
girl — lovely  in  character,  attractive  in  person,  and, 
mentally,  well  cultivated.  I  have  always  regarded 
her  as  the  flower  of  our  town." 

"The  young  man  had  good  taste,  it  seems,"  Mrs. 
Montgomery  remarked. 

"  Better  than  the  young  lady  showed  in  taking  him 
for  a  husband,"  said  I. 

"  Ah  ?  Then  your  opinion  of  him  is  not  so  favor 
able." 

"  He  was  not  worthy  of  her,  if  I  possess  any 
skill  in  reading  character.  But  there  was  one  wor 
thy  of  her,  and  deeply  attached  to  her  at  the  same 
time." 


120 


"  This  young  Wallingford,  of  whom  we  were  speak- 
ing?" 

"  The  same." 

"But  she  didn't  fancy  him?" 

"  She  did  fancy  him.     But—" 

"  Was  not  able  to  resist  the  attractions  of  a  New 
York  merchant,  when  put  in  opposition  to  those  of  a 
humble  country  lawyer?" 

"  The  truth  lies  about  there.  She  took  the  showy 
effigy  of  a  man,  in  place  of  the  real  man." 

"  A  sad  mistake.  But  it  is  made  every  day,"  said 
Mrs.  Montgomery,  "and  will  continue  to  be  made. 
Alas  for  the  blindness  and  folly  that  lead  so  many  into 
paths  that  terminate  in  barren  deserts,  or  wildernesses 
where  the  soul  is  lost !  And  so  our  young  friend  has 
been  crossed  in  love." 

"The  experience  is  deeper  than  usual,"  said  I. 
Then  I  related,  with  some  particularity,  the  facts  in 
the  case,  already  known  to  the  reader.  Both  the 
mother  and  daughter  listened  with  deep  attention. 
After  I  had  finished  my  story,  Mrs.  Montgomery  said, 

"  He  possesses  will  and  strength  of  character,  that 
is  plain ;  but  I  can't  say  that  I  just  like  the  deliberate 
process  of  unloving,  if  I  may  use  the  word,  which  you 
have  described.  There  is  something  too  cold-blooded 
about  it  for  me.  Like  the  oak,  bent  under  the  pres 
sure  of  a  fierce  storm,  he  comes  up  erect  too  soon." 

I  smiled  at  her  view  of  the  case,  and  answered, 

"  You  look  upon  it  as  a  woman,  I  as  a  man.  To 
me,  there  is  a  certain  moral  grandeur  in  the  way  he 


THE   TRULY  WISE.  121 

has  disenthralled  himself  from  fetters  that  could  not 
remain,  without  a  life-long  disability." 

"  Oh,  no  doubt  it  was  the  wisest  course,"  said  Mrs. 
Montgomery. 

"  And  may  we  not  look  among  the  wisest  men,  for 
the  best  and  most  reliable  ?"  I  queried. 

"  Among  those  who  are  truly  wise,"  she  said,  her 
voice  giving  emphasis  to  the  word  truly. 

"  What  is  it  to  be  truly  wise  ?" 

"  All  true  wisdom,"  she  answered,  "  as  it  appertains 
to  the  affairs  of  this  life,  has  its  foundation  in  a  just 
regard  for  others ;  for,  in  the  degree  that  we  are  just 
to  others,  are  we  just  to  ourselves." 

"  And  is  not  the  converse  of  your  proposition  true 
also  ?  In  the  degree  that  we  are  just  to  ourselves,  are 
we  not  just  to  others  ?" 

"  Undoubtedly.  Each  individual  bears  to  common 
society,  the  same  relation  that  a  member,  organ,  or 
fibre,  does  to  the  human  body,  of  which  it  makes  a 
part.  And  as  no  member,  organ,  or  fibre  of  the  body, 
can  injure  itself  without  injuring  the  whole  man ;  so 
no  individual  can  do  wrong  to  himself,  without  a  con 
sequent  wrong  to  others.  Each  has  duties  to  perform 
for  the  good  of  common  society,  and  any  self-inflicted 
or  self-permitted  disabilities  that  hinder  the  right  per 
formance  of  these  duties,  involve  a  moral  wrong." 

"  Then  the  case  is  very  clear  for  my  friend  Walling- 
ford,"  said  I.  "  He  is  a  wise  man  in  your  sense  of 
the  word — wise,  in  resolutely  putting  away  from  his 
mind  the  image  of  one  who,  if  she  had  been  worthy 
of  him,  would  have  taken  her  place  proudly  by  his 


122  TWENTY  YEARS 

side  ;  but,  proving  herself  unworthy,  could  never  after 
ward  be  to  him  more  than  a  friend  or  stranger.  He 
could  not  hold  her  image  in  his  heart,  and  fondly  re 
gard  it,  without  sin ;  for  was  she  not  to  be  the  brido 
of  another?  Nor  without  suffering  loss  of  mental 
power,  and  life-purpose,  and  thus  injuring  others 
through  neglect  of  duty.  It  was  acting  wisely,  then, 
for  him  to  come  up,  manfully,  to  the  work  of  drawing 
back  his  misplaced  affections,  and  getting  them  again 
fully  into  his  own  possession.  And  he  hag  done  the 
work,  if  I  read  the  signs  aright.  All  honor  to  his 
manhood  !" 

"  He  has,  I  see,  a  warm  advocate  in  you,  Doctor," 
said  Mrs.  Montgomery,  again  smiling.  "  Still,  in  an 
affair  of  the  heart,  where  so  much  was  involved,  as 
seemed  to  be  in  his  case,  we  can  hardly  fancy  such  a 
matter-of-fact,  business-like  proceeding  as  you  have 
described.  He  might  well  have  been  forgiven,  if  he 
had  shown  more  weakness  of  character,  and  acted  even 
a  little  unreasonably.  I  will  yield  to  no  one  in  my 
regard  for  manly  firmness  and  self-control,  for  bravery 
and  endurance ;  and  I  have  seen  these  qualities  put  to 
some  of  the  severest  tests.  But  in  matters  of  the 
heart,  I  must  own  that  I  like  to  see  a  man  show  his 
weakness.  Your  Mr.  Wallingford  is  too  cool  and  cal 
culating  for  me.  But  this  is  irrelevant  to  our  consi 
deration  of  -his  qualities  as  a  business  agent.  For  this 
purpose,  I  am  satisfied  that  he  is  fitted  in  all  things 
essential." 

"And  that  is  quite  as  far  as  we  need  go,"  said  I. 

"  The  business  in  hand,"  said  Mrs.  Montgomery, 


MRS.  MONTGOMERY  THE   HEIRESS.  123 

resuming  the  conversation  after  a  pause,  "  is  of  great 
importance  to  me,  and  may  require  not  only  a  visit  to 
England,  but  also  to  the  West  Indies.  Unless  evidence 
of  my  mother's  marriage  can  be  found,  there  will  be, 
as  you  know,  considerable  difficulty  in  establishing  my 
full  right  to  inherit  my  brother's  property.  And  my 
identity  as  the  sister  of  the  late  Captain  Allen  must 
also  be  proved.  By  the  will  of  my  father,  which  is  on 
record,  he  left  all  of  his  property  to  my  brother.  He, 
as  far  as  is  known,  died  intestate.  As  next  of  kin,  I 
am  the  legal  heir ;  but  the  proof  is  yet  wanting.  My 
mother's  cousin,  a  Colonel  Willoughby,  of  whom  we 
have  before  spoken,  came  over  from  England,  on  the 
strength  of  some  vague  rumors  that  reached  the  family 
from  Jamaica,  and  was  successful  in  discovering  the 
only  survivor  of  his  uncle's  family.  She  saw  it  best 
to  abandon  her  husband,  as  you  know.  My  purpose 
in  sending  an  agent,  versed  in  legal  matters,  and  used 
to  weighing  evidence,  is  to  have  such  papers  of  Colonel 
Willoughby's  as  the  family  possess  and  will  submit  for 
examination,  carefully  searched,  in  the  hope  that  some 
record  may  be  found  in  his  hand-writing,  sufficiently 
clear  to  establish  the  fact  that  my  mother  was  the  wife 
of  the  elder  Captain  Allen.  So  important  an  event  as 
that  of  searching  out  my  mother,  and  inducing  her  to 
flee  from  her  husband,  could  hardly  have  taken  place, 
it  seems  to  me,  without  evidence  of  the  fact  being  pre 
served.  And  my  hope  is,  that  this  evidence,  if  it  can 
be  found,  will  prove  of  great  value.  So  you  see, 
Doctor,  that  I  have  good  reasons  for  wishing  to  know 


124  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND   NOW. 

well  the  agent  who  goes  abroad  with  a  matter  so  vital 
as  this  in  his  hands." 

I  admitted  the  importance  of  a  thoroughly  reliable 
man  to  go  upon  this  mission,  and  repeated  my  faith  in 
Wallingford. 


A   FAVORABLE  IMPRESSION.  125 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

I  SAW  Mrs.  Montgomery  a  few  days  afterwards,  and 
inquired  if  she  had  seen  the  young  associate  of  Judge 
Bigelow.  She  replied  in  the  affirmative. 

"  How  does  he  impress  you  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Favorably,  upon  the  whole ;  though,"  she  added 
with  one  of  her  meaning  smiles,  "  I  can't  help  think 
ing  all  the  time  about  the  cool,  calculating,  resolute 
way  in  which  he  went  about  disentangling  himself  from 
an  unfortunate  love  affair.  I  look  at  his  calm  face, 
over  which  you  rarely  see  a  ripple  of  feeling  go,  and 
ask  myself,  sometimes,  if  a  heart  really  beats  within 
his  bosom." 

"  There  does ;  a  true,  large,  manly  heart,  full  of 
deep  feeling;  you  may  be  sure  of  this,  madam,"  I  an 
swered,  with  some  warmth. 

"  I  will  not  gainsay  your  words,  Doctor.  I  trust 
for  his  sake  that  it  may  be  so." 

"  Leaving  out  the  heart  matter,  and  regarding  him 
only  as  to  his  fitness  for  the  work  in  hand,  you  are  fa 
vorably  impressed  ?" 

"Quite  so.  I  find  him  quick  of  apprehension,  in 
telligent,  and  of  sufficient  gravity  of  deportment  to 


126  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 

ensure  a  respectful  attention  wherever  he  may  go.  He 
made  one  suggestion  that  ought  to  have  occurred  to 
me,  and  upon  which  I  am  acting.  As  no  will  has  been 
found,  it  has  been  assumed  that  Captain  Allen  died 
intestate.  Mr.  Wallingford  suggests  that  a  will  may 
have  been  executed ;  and  that  a  thorough  search  be 
made  in  order  to  discover  if  one  exists.  In  conse 
quence  of  this  suggestion,  Blanche  and  I  have  been 
hard  at  work  for  two  days,  prying  into  drawers,  exam 
ining  old  papers,  and  looking  into  all  conceivable,  and 
I  had  almost  said  inconceivable  places." 

"  And  if  you  were  to  find  a  will  ?"  said  I,  looking 
into  her  earnest  face. 

"  The  question  would  be  that  much  nearer  to  a  solu 
tion." 

"  Is  it  at  all  probable  that  it  would  be  in  your  fa 
vor?" 

I  saw  her  start  at  the  query,  while  her  brows  closed 
slightly,  as  if  from  a  sudden  pain.  She  looked  at  me 
steadily  for  a  few  moments,  without  speaking ;  then, 
after  a  long  inspiration,  she  said  : 

"  Whether  in  my  favor  or  not,  any  disposition  that 
he  has  made  of  his  property,  in  law  and  right,  must, 
of  course,  stand  good." 

"  You  might  contest  such  a  will,  if  not  in  your 
favor." 

She  shook  her  head,  compressed  her  lips  firmly,  and 
said : 

"  No.  I  should  not  contest  the  will.  My  belief 
was,  when  I  came  here,  that  he  died  without  making  a 


THE   PEOBE.  127 

bequest  of  any  kind,  and  that  his  property  would  go, 
in  consequence,  to  the  heir-at-law.  This  was  the  in 
formation  that  I  received.  If  it  should  prove  other 
wise,  I  shall  make  no  opposition." 

"  Do  you  intend,  under  this  view,  continuing  the 
search  for  a  will?" 

Something  in  the  tone  of  voice  touched  her  un 
pleasantly.  I  saw  the  light  in  her  eyes  glow  intenser, 
and  her  lips  arch. 

"  Why  not  ?"  she  asked,  looking  at  me  steadily. 

I  could  have  given  another  meaning  to  my  question 
from  the  one  I  intended  to  convey,  had  it  so  pleased 
me,  and  thus  avoided  a  probable  offence.  But  I  wished 
to  see  a  little  deeper  into  the  quality  of  her  mind,  and 
so  used  the  probe  that  was  in  my  hand. 

"  If  you  find  a  will,  devising  the  property  out  of 
your  line,  all  your  present  prospects  are  at  an  end," 
said  I. 

"  I  know  it." 

Her  voice  was  firm  as  well  as  emphatic. 

"  Then  why  not  take  the  other  horn  of  this  dilemma? 
Give  up  searching  for  a  will  that  can  hardly  be  in  your 
favor,  and  go  on  to  prove  your  title  through  consan 
guinity." 

"  And  thus  shut  my  eyes  to  the  probable  rights  of 
others,  in  order  to  secure  a  personal  advantage  ?  Do 
you  think  I  would  do  this,  Doctor  ?  If  so,  you  have 
mistaken  me." 

There  was  a  tone  of  regret  in  her  voice. 

"  Pardon  me,"  I  replied.     "  The  suggestion  was 


128  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND   NOW. 

natural  under  the  circumstances,  and  I  gave  it  utter 
ance." 

"  Were  you  in  my  place,  would  you  give  up  the 
search  here?" 

She  fixed  on  me  a  penetrating  look. 

The  probe  had  changed  hands. 

"  It  is  difficult,"  I  answered,  u  for  us  to  say  what  we 
would  do  if  we  were  to  change  places  with  another.  In 
my  experience,  it  is  easy  to  see  what  is  right  for  our 
neighbor,  but  very  difficult  to  see  the  right  way  for 
ourselves,  when  under  the  allurement  of  some  per 
sonal  advantage." 

"  Would  it  be  right  in  me  to  give  up  the  search  ?" 

"  I  think  not." 

My  answer  was  without  hesitation. 

"  And  I  will  not,"  she  said,  firmly.  "  If  my  brother 
has  devised  his  property,  I  have  only  to  know  the 
terms  of  his  will.  If  it  is  against  me,  well.  I  shall 
not  oppose  its  operation." 

"  It  sometimes  happens,"  I  suggested,  "that  a  testa 
tor  is  manifestly  out  of  his  right  mind  as  to  the  direc 
tion  given  to  his  property,  and  bequeaths  it  in  a  manner 
so  evidently  unwise  and  improper,  that  both  justice 
and  humanity  are  served  in  the  act  of  setting  aside  the 
will.  And  it  might  prove  so  in  this  case." 

"  I  know  not  how  that  may  be,"  Mrs.  Montgomery 
answered,  soberly,  yet  firmly.  "  But  this  I  do  know" 
— she  spoke  resolutely — "  God  helping  me,  I  will  not 
stain  my  hands  with  gold  that,  in  any  legal  right,  be 
longs  to  another.  What  is  clearly  mine,  I  will  take 
and  use,  as  it  is  my  right  and  duty.  But  I  must  be 


WHAT   IS   RIGHT   IS   BEST.  129 

certain  that  it  is  mine.  If  there  is  no  will,  I  am  clear 
as  to  who  is  the  owner  of  this  estate ;  if  there  is  a 
will,  and  I  and  mine  are  not  included  in  its  provisions, 
I  will  step  aside.  First,  however,  the  obligation  to 
search  for  a  will  is  imperative ;  and  I  shall  continue  it 
until  clearly  satisfied  that  no  such  document  exists." 

What  a  womanly  dignity  there  was  in  Mrs.  Montgo 
mery  as  she  said  this,  drawing  her  tall  form  up  to  its 
full  height  in  speaking — not  proudly,  but  with  con 
scious  integrity ! 

"  What  is  right  is  always  best."  I  made  the  remark 
as  well  approvingly  as  in  expression  of  an  immutable 
truth. 

"Always,  always,"  she  replied,  with  earnestness. 
"  There  is  no  blinder  folly  than  that  of  grasping  a 
present  worldly  good,  at  the  expense  of  violated  jus 
tice.  Whoever  does  so,  comes  out  that  far  wrong  in 
the  end.  There  is  only  one  way  that  leads  to  peace 
of  mind:  the  way  of  honor  and  right.  All  other 
ways,  no  matter  into  what  rich  harvest  fields  they  may 
lead  in  the  beginning,  terminate  in  wretchedness. 
There  never  has  been,  and  never  will  be,  any  excep 
tion  to  this  rule.  We  see  its  operation  daily,  turn  our 
eyes  whatsoever  way  we  choose.  And  God  forbid  that 
I  should  deliberately  enter  the  way  that  leads  to  ulti 
mate  unhappiness  !  Self-denial  in  the  present  is  bet 
ter  than  gnawing  regret  in  the  future.  The  good 
things  of  this  world  prove  to  be  curses  instead  of  bless 
ings,  unless  the  mind  be  rightly  adjusted  for  their  en 
joyment.  And  such  a  right  adjustment  is  impossible 

where  the  very  fact  of  their  possession  involves  a  mo= 
9 


130  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 

ral  wrong.  I  see  this  so  clearly,  Doctor,  that  I  shud 
der  inwardly  at  the  bare  imagination  of  committing 
such  a  wrong." 

"It  is  by  trial  that  God  proves  us,"  said  I,  "  and 
may  He  bring  you  out  of  this  one,  should  the  trial 
come,  as  gold  from  the  refiner's  furnace !" 

"  Amen  !"  was  her  solemnly  uttered  response  ;  "if 
it  should  come,  may  I  be  found  strong  enough  to  do 
the  right !" 

For  over  a  week  this  search  for  a  will  was  continued, 
until  it  was  clear  to  all  concerned  that  no  such  docu 
ment  was  in  existence.  Then  preparation  was  made 
for  the  visit  to  England,  in  search  of  evidence  bearing 
upon  the  identity  of  Mrs.  Montgomery  as  the  sister 
of  Captain  Allen.  Two  or  three  months  elapsed,  how 
ever,  before  Mr.  Wallingford  could  so  arrange  his  bu 
siness  as  to  be  absent  for  the  length  of  time  it  might 
take  to  complete  his  mission.  He  sailed  for  England 
in  June,  between  three  and  four  months  after  the  mar 
riage  of  Delia  Floyd.  He  called  to  see  me  on  the 
day  before  leaving,  and  I  had  a  brief  but  pleasant 
talk  with  him.  He  was  in  good  health  and  good  spi 
rits,  and  anticipated  a  successful  visit. 

"I  shall  gain,"  he  remarked,  "in  two  ways  by  this 
trip.  Professionally  and  intellectually.  I  have  had 
many  a  dream  of  that  land  of  our  forefathers — Eng 
land — now  to  be  realized.  I  shall  see  London,  walk 
its  streets,  and  linger  amid  its  historic  places.  Don't 
smile  at  this  almost  boyish  enthusiasm,  Doctor.  Lon 
don  has  always  been  the  Mecca  of  my  desires." 

J  had  never  seen  him  so  animated.     A  higher  life 


HONORABLE  AMBITION.  131 

seemed  flowing  in  his  veins.  His  countenance  had  a 
brighter  aspect  than  usual,  and  his  head  an  erecter 
carriage.  There  was  a  depth  of  meaning  in  his  eyes 
never  observed  before — a  look  as  if  some  new  born 
hope  were  lending  its  inspiration  to  his  soul.  Alto 
gether  manlier  was  his  aspect  and  bearing  than  I  had 
ever  seen  it. 

"  God  speed  your  mission,"  said  I,  as  I  shook  hands 
with  him  in  parting. 

"  If  it  depends  on  human  agency,  directed  with 
earnestness,  patience,  and  will,  my  mission  will  have 
a  prosperous  result,"  he  replied.  "It  is  to  be  my 
first  entirely  self-reliant  experience,  and  I  think  the 
discipline  of  mind  it  will  involve  must  strengthen  me 
for  higher  professional  work  than  any  in  which  I  have 
yet  been  engaged.  You  are  aware,  Doctor,  that  my 
heart  is  in  my  profession." 

"  So  I  have  seen  from  the  beginning." 

"  I  will  not  deny,"  he  added,  "  that  I  have  ambition. 
That  I  wish  to  be  distinguished  at  the  bar." 

"An  honorable  ambition,"  said  I. 

"  Nor  that,  sometimes — in  moments  of  weakness, 
perhaps — my  dreams  have  gone  higher.  But  I  am  a 
very  young  man,  and  youth  is  ardent  and  imagina 
tive,"  he  added. 

"And  you  have  this  great  advantage,"  I  replied, 
"  that,  with  every  year  added  to  your  life,  you  may, 
if  you  will,  grow  wiser  and  stronger.  You  stand,  as 
all  young  minds,  at  the  bottom  of  a  ladder.  The 
height  to  which  you  climb  will  depend  upon  your 
strength  and  endurance." 


132  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND   NOW. 

"  If  we  both  live  long  enough,  Doctor,  you  may  see 
me  on  the  topmost  rundle,  for  I  shall  climb  with  un 
wearying  effort." 

He  spoke  with  a  fine  enthusiasm,  that  lent  a  manly 
beauty  to  his  face. 

"Climb  on,"  I  answered,  "and  you  will  rise  high 
above  the  great  mass,  who  are  aimless  and  indolent. 
But  you  will  have  competitors,  few,  but  vigorous  and 
tireless.  In  the  contest  for  position  that  you  must 
wage  with  these,  all  your  powers  will  be  taxed ;  and 
if  you  reach  the  topmost  rundle  to  which  you  aspire, 
success  will  be,  indeed,  a  proud  achievement." 

"  I  have  the  will,  the  ambition,  the  courage,  and  the 
endurance,  Doctor,"  was  his  reply.  "So,  if  I  fail, 
the  fault  will  lie  here,"  and  he  touched,  significantly, 
his  forehead. 

"For  lack  of  brains  ?"  said  I,  smiling. 

"Yes.  The  defect  will  lie  there,"  he  answered, 
smiling  in  return. 

"Brains  are  remarkable  for  latent  capacity.  If 
stimulated,  they  develop  new  powers,  and  this  almost 
without  limit.  All  they  want  is  to  be  well  supplied 
with  the  right  kind  of  food,  and  well  worked  at  the 
same  time." 

"  I  believe  that,  Doctor,  and  find  vast  encouragement 
in  the  thought,"  and  Wallingford  laughed  pleasantly. 

Our  parting  words  were  growing  voluminous.  So 
we  shook  hands  again,  repeated  our  mutual  good 
wishes,  and  separated.  In  the  afternoon  he  started  for 
Boston,  from  whence  he  sailed,  on  the  next  day,  for 
England. 


THE   WILL   FOUND.  133 

This  was  towards  the  latter  end  of  June.  He  was 
to  write  to  Mrs.  Montgomery  immediately  on  his  arri 
val  out,  and  again  as  soon  as  he  had  obtained  an  inter 
view  with  the  Willoughby  family.  Early  in  August, 
she  received  his  first  letter,  which  was  brief,  simply 
announcing  his  arrival  at  Liverpool. 

About  three  weeks  after  the  coming  of  this  letter,  I 
received  a  note  from  Mrs.  Montgomery  asking  me  to 
call.  On  meeting  her,  I  noticed  something  in  her 
manner  that  struck  me  as  unusual.  She  did  not  smile, 
as  was  her  wont,  when  we  met,  her  countenance  re 
taining  its  usual  serious  expression.  I  thought  she 
looked  paler,  and  just  a  little  troubled. 

"  Thank  you  for  calling  so  promptly,  Doctor,"  she 
said.  "  I  am  afraid  you  will  think  me  troublesome. 
But  you  have  always  shown  a  kindly  interest  in  me, 
though  a  stranger ;  and  have  proved,  in  all  cases,  a 
sound  adviser." 

I  bowed,  and  she  continued: 

"  I  have  a  second  letter  from  Mr.  Wallingford. 
He  has,  he  writes,  been  well  received  by  my  relatives, 
who  had  placed  in  his  hands,  for  examination,  a  large 
quantity  of  papers  that  belonged  to  Colonel  Will 
oughby." 

"  If  they  contain  any  evidence  in  the  right  direction, 
he  will  be  sure  to  find  it,"  said  I. 

"No  doubt  of  that.  But" — I  thought  her  voice 
faltered  a  little — "the  question  is  solved,  and  he  may 
return." 

"  Solved  !    How  ?"     I  asked  quickly. 

"I  have  found  the  will." 


134  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND  JSOW. 

"What?" 

"I  have  found  the  will,"  she  repeated,  in  a  steady 
tone,  "and  that  solves  the  question." 

"Is  it  in  your  favor?"  I  asked,  and  then  held  my 
breath  for  a  reply.  It  came  in  a  firmly  uttered — 

"No." 

We  looked  steadily  into  each  other's  face  for  several 
moments. 

"  In  whose  favor  ?" 

"In  favor  of  Theresa  Garcia  his  wife,"  she  replied. 

"  But  she  is  dead,"  I  answered  quickly. 

"  True — but  I  am  not  his  heir." 

She  said  this  resolutely. 

"  She  died  childless,"  said  I,  "and  will  not  the  de 
scent  stop  with  her  ? — the  property  reverting  to  you, 
as  next  of  kin  to  Captain  Allen  ?" 

"  She  may  have  relatives — a  brother  or  sister,"  said 
Mrs.  Montgomery. 

"  That  is  scarcely  probable,"  I  objected. 

"It  is  possible;  and  in  order  to  ascertain  the  fact, 
all  right  means  ought  to,  and  must  be,  taken." 

"  Where  did  you  find  the  will  ?"     I  inquired. 

"  Blanche  was  examining  a  small  drawer  in  an  old 
secretary,  when  she  accidentally  pressed  her  hand 
against  one  side,  which  yielded.  She  pressed  harder, 
and  it  continued  to  yield,  until  it  was  pushed  back 
several  inches.  On  withdrawing  this  pressure,  the  side 
returned  to  its  place.  She  then  tried  to  see  how  far  it 
could  be  forced  in.  As  soon  as  it  had  passed  a  certain 
point,  a  secret  drawer,  set  in  vertically,  sprung  up,  and 
from  the  side,  which  fell  open,  the  will  dropped- out." 


CAPTAIN  ALLEN'S  WILL.  135 

"It  is  singular,"  said  I,  "  that  it  should  come  to 
light  just  at  this  time." 

"It  is  Providential,  no  doubt,"  Mrs.  Montgomery 
remarked." 

"What  course  will  you  pursue?"  I  inquired. 

"My  first  step  will  be  to  recall  Mr.  Wallingford." 

"  I  must  take  the  liberty  of  a  friend,  and  object  to 
that,"  said  I. 

"On  what  ground?" 

"  This  will  may  be  worth  the  paper  on  which  it  is 
written,  and  no  more.  If  the  legatee  have  no  rela 
tives,  you  stand  just  where  you  stood  before,  and  will 
require  the  evidence  as  to  identity  for  which  Mr.  Wal 
lingford  is  now  in  search.  Oh,  no,  Mrs.  Montgomery; 
he  must  not  be  recalled." 

The  lady  mused  for  a  little  while,  and  then  said — 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,  Doctor." 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  I  replied,  speaking  earnestly. 
"  This  will,  if  we  find  it,  on  examination,  to  be  an 
instrument  executed  according  to  legal  forms,  puts 
your  rights  in  jeopardy,  though  by  no  means  sets  them 
aside." 

"You  take  the  correct  view,  no  doubt,"  was  her 
reply  to  this.  Her  voice  was  not  so  firm  as  in  the 
beginning.  As  the  probabilities  began  to  show  them 
selves  again  in  her  favor,  she  lost  a  degree  of  self- 
possession. 

"Let  Mr.  Wallingford  complete  his  work,"  said  I, 
"and  find,  if  possible,  the  evidence  you  require,  in 
case  you  prove  to  be  the  legal  heir,  as  I  trust  you  will. 


136  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,  AND   NOW. 

And  until  his  return,  the  existence  of  this  important 
document  had  better  remain  a  secret." 

"  Shall  I  not  submit  it  to  Judge  Bigelow  ?  " 

I  reflected  for  some  moments,  and  then  replied — 

"  Yes.  He  is  your  legal  adviser,  and  one  in  whom 
the  highest  confidence  may  be  reposed.  The  will 
should  be  at  once  placed  in  his  hands  for  examina 
tion." 

"  And  go  upon  record  ?  " 

"Better  leave  all  to  his  superior  legal  judgment. 
But,"  as  the  thought  occurred  to  me,  "who  are  named 
as  the  executors  of  this  will?" 

"I  did  not  examine  as  to  that,  being  too  much 
interested  in  the  provisions  of  the  writing,"  she 
replied. 

"  May  I  see  the  document  ?  " 

"  Blanche,  dear,  you  will  find  it  in  the  right-hand 
drawer  of  the  secretary,  in  our  room;"  and  Mrs. 
Montgomery  handed  a  key  to  her  daughter,  who  left 
the  apartment  in  which  we  were  sitting.  She  came 
back  in  a  few  minutes,  and  handed  me  a  paper,  which, 
on  examination,  I  found  to  be  written  throughout,  and 
evidently  by  the  hand  of  Captain  Allen.  It  was  dated 
San  Juan  de  Porto  Rico,  January  10,  1820,  and  was 
witnessed  by  two  signatures — the  names  Spanish. 
The  executors  were  Judge  Bigelow  and  Squire  Floyd. 
There  was  an  important  sentence  at  the  conclusion  of 
the  will.  It  was  in  these  words : — "  In  case  my  wife, 
in  dying,  should  leave  no  relatives,  then  every  thing 
shall  revert  to  my  own  right  heirs,  should  any  be 
living." 


THE   EXECUTORS.  137 

All  this  gave  the  affair,  in  my  mind,  a  more  serious 
aspect.  Before  mentioning  the  executors'  names,  I 
said — 

"  Do  you  know  where  Theresa  Garcia  resided,  before 
her  marriage  with  Captain  Allen  ?" 

"In  Porto  Rico,  as  I  have  learned  from  old 
4  Aunty,'  and  also  from  letters  found  in  searching  for 
the  will." 

"  Which  I  find  was  executed  at  San  Juan  De  Porto 
Rico,  the  principal  town  on  the  island.  Judge  Bige- 
low  and  Squire  Floyd  are  the  executors." 

I  saw  her  start  slightly,  and  grow  a  little  pale  as  I 
said  this. 

"  Judge  Bigelow,  and  Sofuire  Floyd  !  That  is  ex 
traordinary  !"  She  was  more  disturbed  than  I  had 
yet  seen  her  in  reference  to  this  matter. 

"  It  is  remarkable,  certainly,  that  Judge  Bigelow, 
your  legal  adviser,  should  be  one  of  the  executors  of 
a  will,  which  determines  your  brother's  estate  out  of 
the  line  of  consanguinity." 

"  He  must,  of  course,  cease  to  represent  my  interest 
in  the  case,"  remarked  the  lady.  * 

"He  cannot  represent  two  diverse  interests,"  said  I. 

"  No  ;  that  is  clear."  She  said  this  in  a  troubled 
way ;  and  was,  evidently,  falling  into  a  perplexed  state 
of  mind.  "Well,  Doctor,  what  is  to  be  done  ?"  She 
spoke  with  recovered  self-possession,  after  a  short 
period  of  silence,  looking  at  me  with  her  old  calmness 
of  expression. 

I  took  some  moments  for  reflection,  and  then  said, 

"  My  advice  is,  to  keep  your  own  counsel,  and  wait 


138  TWENTY   YEARS   AGO,    AND   NOW. 

until  Mr  Wallingford  returns  from  England.  When 
ever  you  place  this  document  in  the  hands  of  Judge 
Bigelow,  he  must  go  over  to  the  adverse  interest ;  when 
you  will  be  compelled  to  seek  another  legal  adviser. 
You  are  not  just  ready  for  this  ;  nor  will  be,  until  after 
your  agent  comes  back  with  the  result  of  his  investi 
gations.  No  wrong  to  any  one  can  possibly  occur  from 
letting  things  remain  just  as  they  are  for  a  few 
months." 

"  I  think  your  vi£w  of  the  matter  correct,  Doc 
tor,"  was  her  reply.  "  And  yet,  to  keep  this  secret, 
even  for  an  hour,  when  I  have  no  right  to  its  possession, 
touches  my  conscience.  Is  it  just  ?  This  will  is  not 
in  my  favor.  It  does  n'ot  even  recognize  my  exis 
tence.  It  devises  property,  of  large  value,  in  another 
line  ;  and  there  may  be  heirs  ready  to  take  possession 
the  moment  its  existence  is  made  known  to  them. 
Am  I  not  intermeddling,  unjustly,  in  the  affairs  of  an 
other  ?" 

"But  for  you,"  I  replied,  "this  will  might  never 
have  seen  the  light.  If  heirs  exist,  they  can,  there 
fore,  have  no  just  reason  for  complaint  at  the  brief  de 
lay  to  which,  under  the  circumstances,  you  are,  in 
common  justice,  entitled.  Your  conscience  may  be 
over  sensitive,  Mrs.  Montgomery." 

"  I  would  rather  it  were  over  sensitive  than  obtuse," 
she  said.  "  Worldly  possessions  are  desirable.  They 
give  us  many  advantages.  We  all  desire  and  cling  "to 
them.  But  they  are  dearly  bought  at  the  price  of 
heavenly  possessions.  What  will  it  profit  a  man  if  he 
gain  the  whole  world  and  lose  his  own  soul  ?  Noth- 


NOBLE    RESOLUTION.  139 

ing  !  It  were  better  for  him  to  die  like  Lazarus.  No, 
Doctor,  I  am  resolved  in  this  matter  to  be  simply  just. 
If,  in  justice  and  right,  this  estate  comes  into  my 
hands,  I  will  take  the  wealth  thankfully  and  use  it  as 
wisely  as  I  can.  But  I  will  not  throw  a  single  straw 
in  the  way  of  its  passing  to  the  legal  heirs  of  my 
brother's  wife,  if  any  are  in  existence  and  can  be 
found." 

"  But  you  will  keep  this  secret  until  Mr.  Walling- 
ford's  return?"  I  urged. 

"I  do  not  see  that  wrong  to  any  one  can  follow 
such  a  delay,"  she  answered.  "  Yes,  I  will  keep  the 
secret." 

"  And  I  will  keep  it  also,  even  from  my  good  Con 
stance,"  said  I,  "until  your  agent's  return.  The 
matter  lies  sacred  between  us." 


140  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND   NOW. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

"MRS.  DEWEY  is  at  her  father's,"  said  my  wife  to 
me,  one  evening  in  August,  as  we  sat  at  the  tea-table. 

"Ah!  have  you  seen  her?"  I  was  interested  at 
once.  Six  months  had  elapsed  since  Delia's  wedding, 
and  this  was  her  first  visit  home ;  though  her  mother 
had  been  twice  down  to  New  York,  in  company  with 
the  Squire,  who  had  business  with  the  firm  to  which 
Ralph  belonged.  In  fact,  since  his  marriage  to  Squire 
Floyd's  daughter,  young  Dewey  had  prevailed  upon 
his  father-in-law  to  make  the  house  of  Floyd,  Lawson, 
Lee  &  Co.,  agents  for  the  entire  product  of  his  manu 
factory — an  arrangement  which  the  Squire  regarded 
as  greatly  to  his  advantage. 

My  question  was  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

"How  is  she?" 

"Looking  very  well." 

There  was  no  warmth  or  feeling  in  my  wife's  voice 
or  manner,  although  Delia  had  been  a  favorite  with 
her,  and  we  had  often  talked  about  the  pleasure  we 
should  have  in  meeting  her  again. 

"  Have  you  nothing  more  to  say  of  our  young 
friend?"  I  asked. 

"  She  is  very  much  changed." 


CHANGE   IN   MRS.    DEWEY.  141 

X 

"For  the  better?" 

"  Some  might  think  so.  I  do  not."  There  was  a 
disappointed  manner  about  my  wife. 

"In  what  respect  is  she  changed  ?" 

"  Some  would  say  that  she  had  grown  handsome ; 
and,  in  truth,  her  countenance  strikes  you,  at  first,  as 
much  improved.  It  is  rounded  to  a  fuller  outline,  and 
has  a  style  ahout  it,  caught,  I  suppose,  from  city  life 
and  feeling.  But  she  carries  her  head  with  a  statelier 
air  than  is  becoming  Squire  Floyd's  daughter ;  and  I 
am  very  sure,  that,  as  the  wife  of  Ralph  Dewey,  she 
has  acquired  no  special  consequence.  Rich  jewelry 
may  be  very  well  in  city  drawing-rooms,  and  public 
assemblages,  where  dress  is  made  conspicuous.  But  to 
sport  diamond  ear-rings  and  breastpin,  splendid  enough 
for  a  countess,  in  her  father's  little  parlor,  and  before 
the  eyes  of  friends  who  loved  her  once  for  herself 
alone,  savored  so  strongly  of  weak  pride  and  vanity, 
that  I  could  not  look  upon  her  with  any  of  my  old 
feelings.  It  was  Delia  Floyd  no  longer.  Already, 
the  pure,  sweet,  artless  maiden,  had  changed  into  a 
woman  of  the  world,  dressed  up  for  show.  Ah,  my 
husband !  if  this  is  the  effect  of  city  life,  let  me  never 
breathe  its  tainted  atmosphere." 

And  she  dropped  her  eyes,  with  a  sigh,  and  sat,  lost 
in  thought,  for  several  moments. 

"  Your  account  of  Delia  pains  me,"  said  I.  "  Is  the 
case  indeed  so  bad?" 

"  It  is.  Alas  !  the  fine  gold  is  dimmed.  Our  sweet 
young  friend  has  strayed  from  the  paths  of  nature, 
and  will  never,  I  fear,  get  back  again." 


142  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND  NOW. 

"  Had  you  any  conversation  with  her  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  Yes :  or,  rather  I  listened  to  her,  as  she  ran  on 
about  her  city  life ;  the  grand  people  with  whom  sh( 
had  already  become  acquainted ;  and  the  splendor  of 
balls,  parties,  soirees,  and  operas.  I  grew  sober  as 
she  talked :  for  not  one  true  womanly  sentiment  fell 
from  her  lips.  She  did  not  express  interest  in  any  of 
her  new  friends  and  acquaintances  for  the  good  quali 
ties  they  possessed ;  but  spoke  of  their  wealth,  style 
of  living,  social  connections,  and  other  attractions 
wholly  external  to  the  individual.  She  was  even 
eloquent  over  star  actresses  and  opera  singers ;  one  or 
two  of  whom  she  spoke  of  having  met  at  the  house  of 
a  fashionable  friend." 

"  How  true  the  old  adage,  that  evil  communications 
corrupt  good  manners  !"  said  I. 

"  There  must  be  some  radical  weakness  in  a  case  of 
such  sudden  deterioration  as  this,"  replied  my  wife. 
"  Some  latent  vanity  and  love  of  the  world.  I  cannot 
believe  that  one  sensible  young  woman  in  ten  would 
be  spoiled  to  the  degree  that  Delia  is  spoiled,  if  you 
passed  her  through  like  temptations." 

I  saw  Delia  myself,  on  the  next  day.     She  was 

dressed  in  New  York,  not  in  S ,  style ;  and  so, 

naturally,  appeared  to  disadvantage  in  my  eyes.  I 
found  her  very  bright  and  animated ;  and  to  my  ques 
tions  as  to  her  new  city  life,  she  spoke  warmly  of  its 
attractions.  At  times,  in  the  intervals  of  exciting  talk, 
her  countenance  would  fall  into  its  true  expression,  as 
nearly  all  countenances  will  when  thought  ceases  to  be 
active — that  expression,  in  which  you  see,  as  in  a  mir- 


HABITS   OF   GOOD   SOCIETY.  143 

ror,  the  actual  state  of  mind.  It  revealed  far  more 
than  came  into  her  consciousness  at  the  time,  else 
would  she  have  covered  it  with  one  of  the  rippling 
smiles  she  had  already  learned  to  throw,  like  a  span 
gled  veil,  over  her  face. 

Mrs.  Dewey  spent  nearly  a  month  in  S , 

and  then  went  back  with  her  husband  to  New  York. 
I  saw  them  several  times  together  during  this  period. 
He  had  grown  more  pompous  in  manner,  and  talked 
in  a  larger  way.  Our  little  town  was  simply  con 
temptible  in  his  eyes,  and  he  was  at  no  pains  to  con 
ceal  his  opinion.  New  York  was  everything  ;  and  a 
New  York  merchant  of  passable  standing,  able  to  put 
two  or  three  towns  like  S in  his  breeches  pocket. 

The  only  interest  I  felt  in  this  conceited  young  man 
was  as  the  husband  of  my  young  friend ;  and  as  touch 
ing  their  relation  to  each  other,  I  observed  both  of 
them  very  closely.  It  did  not  take  me  long  to  disco 
ver  that  there  was  no  true  bond  of  love  between  them. 
The  little  fond  attentions  that  we  look  for  in  a  husband 
of  only  six  months'  standing  ;  and  the  tender  recipro 
cations  which  are  sure  to  follow,  were  all  wanting  here. 
Constance  spoke  of  this,  and  I  answered,  lightly,  to 
cover  the  regret  the  fact  occasioned — 

"  It  is  not  fashionable  in  good  society,  you  know, 
for  husband  and  wife  to  show  any  interest  in  each 
other." 

She  laid  her  hand  suddenly  upon  my  arm,  and  looked 
lovingly  into  my  face. 

"  May  we  never  make  a  part  of  good  society,  then !" 

I  kissed  her  pure  lips,  and  answered, 


144  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND   NOT. 

"  There  is  no  present  prospect  of  it,  my  Constance. 
I  am  not  ambitious  of  social  distinction.  Still,  our 
trial  in  this  direction  may  come,  for  you  know  that  I 
am  not  without  ambition  professionally.  A  chair  in 
one  of  the  medical  schools  might  tempt  me  to  an  At 
lantic  city." 

Constance  smiled,  as  she  still  rested  her  hand  upon 
my  arm.  Then  looking  from  my  face  to  our  little 
ones,  two  of  whom  were  playing  on  the  floor,  while 
the  third  slept  like  a  vision  of  innocence  in  the  cradle, 
she  said : — 

"I  shall  not  need  the  glitter  of  diamonds — these 
are  my  jewels." 

Turn  your  eyes  away,  good  society  reader,  lest  they 
be  offended  at  sight  of  a  husband's  kiss.  Could  I  do 
less  than  breathe  my  tender  love  upon  her  lips  again? 

"  And  richer  jewels  were  never  worn  in  the  diadem 
of  a  queen,"  said  I.  "  As  a  mother,  woman  attains 
her  highest  glory." 

"  As  wife  and  mother,"  Constance  answered  quickly. 
And  now  she  leaned  against  me,  and  I  drew  my  arm 
tenderly  around  her. 

"And  all  this,"  she  said,  "a  good  society  woman 
must  give  up ;  and  for  what  ?  God  help  them  in  the 
time  of  life's  bitter  trials  and  painful  experience,  which 
all  must  endure  in  some  degree-!"  She  spoke  with 
strong  feeling.  "  On  what  arm  can  a  woman  lean, 
who  has  no  husband  in  the  true  sense  ?  Is  she  strong 
enough,  standing  alone,  for  life's  great  battles?  What 
has  she  to  sustain  her,  when  all  the  external  support, 
received  from  pride,  is  swept  away?  Alas!  Alas! 


BUSINESS   CONVERSATION.  145 

Is  there  a  blinder  folly  than  the  pageantry  of  fashion 
able  society  ?  It  is  the  stage  on  a  grander  scale,  glit 
tering,  gorgeous,  fascinating  to  the  senses — but  all  a 
mere  show,  back  from  which  the  actors  retire,  each 
with  an  individual  consciousness,  and  the  sad  words 
pressing  to  tremulous  lips — 'The  heart  knoweth  its 
own  bitterness.' ' 

Like  ourselves,  most  of  Delia's  best  friends  were 
disappointed,  and  when  she  returned  to  New  York,  no 
hearts  followed  her  with  tender  interest,  except  those 
of  her  own  family.  She  had  carried  herself  with  an 
air  of  too  much  self-consequence ;  or,  if  she  came  down 
to  the  level  of  old  friends  and  companions,  it  was  with 
too  evident  a  feeling  of  condescension. 

I  happened  to  fall  into  the  company  of  Squire  Floyd 
and  Judge  Bigelow,  not  very  long  after  the  return  of 
Delia  and  her  husband  to  New  York.  The  conversa 
tion  turned  upon  business,  and  I  learned  that  the 
Squire  had  thought  of  enlarging  his  mill,  and  intro 
ducing  steam — the  water  power  being  only  sufficient 
for  its  present  productive  capacity.  Judge  Bigelow 
was  very  much  interested,  I  found,  in  the  particular 
branch  of  manufacture  in  which  his  neighbor  was  en 
gaged,  and  inclined  to  embark  some  capital  with  him 
in  the  proposed  extension  of  the  works.  They  fre 
quently  quoted  the  Judge's  nephew,  Mr.  Ralph  Dewey, 
as  to  the  extent  to  which  goods  could  be  put  into  mar 
ket  by  the  house  of  Floyd,  Lawson,  Lee  &  Co.,  who 
possessed,  it  was  conceded,  almost  unlimited  facilities. 

I  listened  to  their  conversation,  whieh  involved  plans 
of  enlargement,  statistics  of  trade,  home  and  foreign 
10 


146 

production,  capital,  and  the  like,  until  I  began  to  feel 
that  I  was  moving  in  a  narrow  sphere,  and  destined, 
in  comparison  with  them,  to  occupy  a  very  small  space 
on  the  world.  And  I  will  confess  it,  a  shade  of  dis 
satisfaction  crept  over  my  heart. 

A  few  months  later  I  learned  that  my  two  neighbors 
were  jointly  interested  in  the  mill,  and  that  early  in 
the  ensuing  spring  steam-power  would  be  introduced, 
and  the  capacity  of  the  works  increased  to  more  than 
double  their  present  range. 

It  was  December  when  Wallingford  returned  from 
England.  He  brought  back  with  him  all  the  evidence 
required  to  prove  the  identity  of  Mrs.  Montgomery. 
Up  to  this  time  only  three  persons  knew  of  the  exist 
ence  of  a  will — Mrs.  Montgomery,  Blanche,  and  my 
self;  and  we  formed  a  council  on  the  question  of  what 
was  now  to  be  done.  I  gave  it  as  my  opinion,  that, 
as  Judge  Bigelow  was  one  of  the  executors,  and  must 
in  consequence  cease  to  act  for  Mrs.  Montgomery,  that 
we  had  better  call  in  Mr.  Wallingford,  and  get  his 
view  of  the  case  before  placing  the  will  in  Judge  Bige- 
low's  hands.  The  mother  and  daughter  agreed  with 
me.  So  a  time  of  meeting  was  appointed,  and  a  note 
sent  to  the  young  lawyer  desiring  his  presence  at  the 
house  of  Mrs.  Montgomery.  He  seemed  very  much 
gratified  at  the  successful  result  of  his  visit  to  Eng 
land,  and  referred  to  it  with  something  of  pardonable 
pride  in  his  manner. 

"  We  have  every  reason,"  said  Mrs.  Montgomery, 
in  response  to  this,  "  to  be  satisfied  with  the  manner 
in  which  you  have  executed  an  important  mission. 


WALLINGFORD'S  SURPRISE.  147 

Since  you  left  America,  however,  a  document  has 
come  into  my  hands,  which,  had  it  reached  me  earlier, 
would  have  saved  you  a  long  and  tedious  search  among 
mouldy  and  moth-eaten  papers.  It  was  nothing  less 
than  Captain  Allen's  will." 

And  she  gave  him  the  paper.  He  looked  surprised, 
and  for  a  moment  or  two  bewildered.  Then  opening 
the  will,  he  read  it  through  rapidly.  I  saw  the  color 
leave  his  face  as  he  progressed,  and  his  hand  move 
nervously.  It  was -plain  that  his  mind  took  in,  at  a 
grasp,  the  entire  series  of  consequences  which  the 
appearance  of  this  document  involved. 

"This  is  a  serious  matter,"  he  said,  looking  up  at 
Mrs.  Montgomery. 

"It  is,"  she  answered,  calmly.  "The  will  appears 
to  be  in  legal  form." 

"Yes." 

"And  must  go  into  the  hands  of  those  who  are 
named  as  executors." 

"And  be  by  them  entered  in  the  office  of  probate," 
added  Wallingford. 

"  I  would  have  placed  it  in  their  hands  immediately 
on  its  discovery,  but  have,  acting  under  advice  from 
my  kind  friend  here,  waited  until  your  return  from 
England.  No  interest  has  suffered,  I  presume,  by  this 
delay?" 

"None." 

Wallingford  bent  his  eyes  to  the  floor,  and  sat  for 
some  time  as  if  half-confounded  by  the  discovery. 

"  What  step  will  the  executors  probably  take  ?  "  I 
inquired. 


148  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 

"  It  will  be  their  duty  to  assume  possession  of  the 
estate,  and  hold  it  for  the  heirs  of  Mrs.  Allen,  if  any 
are  in  existence,"  he  replied. 

"  And  it  will  be  their  duty  to  take  all  proper  moans 
for  discovering  these  heirs  ?  "  said  I. 

"Yes.     That  follows,  of  course.  " 

"  And  if  none  are  found  within  a  reasonable  time  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  The  phrase,  a  reasonable  time,  is  very  indetermi 
nate,"  said  Wallingford.  "  It  may  include  one,  or  ten 
jears,  according  to  the  facts  in  the  case,  the  views  of 
Jie  executors  and  the  courts." 

"But,  finally?" 

"Finally,"  he  answered,  "if  no  heirs  come  forward 
to  claim  the  estate,  it  will  revert  to  the  old  line  of 
descent  through  the  blood  relations  of  Captain  Allen." 

"And  come  into  the  possession  of  Mrs.  Montgo 
mery?" 

"  Yes,  if  the  courts  are  satisfied  with  the  evidence 
which  can  be  presented  in  her  favor." 

There  followed  a  long  silence,  which  Mrs.  Montgo 
mery  was  first  to  break. 

"I  believe,"  she  said,  firmly,  "that  I  am  prepared 
for  the  final  issue  of  this  matter,  whatever  it  may  be. 
I  shall  still  require  legal  advice,  Mr.  Wallingford." 

The  young  man  bowed  assent. 

"And,  as  Judge  Bigelow  is  one  of  the  executors — " 

"I  do  not  think,  madam,"  said  Wallingford,  inter 
rupting  her,  "that  the  fact  of  his  executorship  will 
make  him  any  the  less  a  safe  adviser  for  you.  He  is 


WALLINGFORD   LEGAL  ADVISER.  149 

a  man  of  the  highest  integrity  of  character,  clear-see 
ing,  and  of  impartial  judgment." 

"  I  believe  in  his  judgment  and  integrity,"  she  re 
plied.  "  Still,  I  do  not  think  it  well  to  have  these  two 
interests  represented  by  the  same  man.  You  are  his 
associate,  if  I  understand  correctly  the  relation  between 
you." 

"I  am,  in  a  certain  sense." 

"  Do  you  have  a  share  in  all  of  his  business  ?" 

"Not  in  all." 

"  So  he  can  be  independent  of  you  in  any  special  case 
if  he  deems  it  desirable." 

"Yes." 

"And  this  is  also  true  as  regards  yourself?" 

"Yes." 

"  Then,  Mr.  Wallingford,  I  shall  consult  you,  indi 
vidually,  in  future." 

He  bowed  low  in  acquiescence. 

"  And  let  me  say  to  you,  once  for  all,  that  I  want 
only  my  rights,  if  I  have  any,  protected.  I  do  not 
wish  any  impediments  thrown  in  the  way  of  a  proper 
search  for  the  heirs  of  Mrs.  Allen ;  but  desire  to  see 
the  fullest  notice  given,  and  in  channels  by  which  it  is 
most  likely  to  reach  them.  At  the  same  time,  it  is  but 
just  to  me  and  mine  that  all  right  steps  should  be 
taken  to  protect  my  interests,  in  case  no  heirs  should 
be  found.  And  I  have  faith  in  you,  Mr.  Wallingford." 

"  You  shall  never  have  cause  to  regret  your  confi 
dence,  madam,"  he  replied,  in  a  tone  so  full  of  manly 
integrity,  that  I  could  not  but  gaze  upon  his  fine 
countenance  with  a  feeling  of  admiration. 


150  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,    AND   NOW. 

"  Will  you  place  this  will  in  the  hands  of  Judge 
Bigelow?"  asked  Mrs.  Montgomery. 

"  It  will  be  best  for  you  to  do  that  yourself,  madam," 
replied  Wallingford. 

"  I  will  be  guided  by  your  judgment  in  the  case,  sir. 
This  very  day  I  will  send  him  a  note  asking  an  inter 
view." 

"After  that,  madam,"  said  Wallingford,  rising,  "I 
will  be  at  your  service." 

We  retired  together. 


CAPTAIN  ALLEN'S  PROPERTY.     151 


CHAPTER  XV. 

BOTH  Judge  Bigelow  and  Squire  Floyd  were  discreet 
men,  and  did  not,  at  the  outset  of  their  executorship, 
do  more  in  the  way  of  giving  publicity  to  the  fact, 
than  probating  the  will,  and  entering  into  bonds  for 
the  faithful  performance  of  the  trust.  For  the  present 
they  decided  to  let  Mrs.  Montgomery  remain  in  occu 
pancy  of  the  old  mansion,  and  she  accepted  this  con 
cession  in  her  favor. 

The  property  left  by  Captain  Allen  was  large.  The 
grounds  upon  which  the  old  house  stood,  embraced 
nearly  twenty  acres,  and  as  the  town  had  grown  in 
that  direction,  its  value  might  now  be  estimated  by  the 
foot,  instead  of  the  acre,  as  houses  had  grown  up  on 
all  sides.  Moreover,  the  stream  of  water  upon  which 
the  mill  of  Squire  Floyd  stood,  ran  through  these 
grounds,  in  a  series  of  picturesque  rapids,,  giving  a  fall 
of  over  twenty  feet.  The  value  of  this  property,  in 
cluding  a  mill  site,  was  estimated  at  sixty  thousand 
dollars.  Then  there  were  twenty  thousand  dollars  in 
stock  of  the  County  Bank,  the  interest  of  which  Mrs. 
Allen  had  drawn  since  the  death  of  her  husband,  reg 
ularly,  as  administratrix  of  the  estate.  Besides  this 
property,  there  were  several  pieces  of  unimproved 


152  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,  AND   NOW. 

land  in  and  around  the  town,  the  value  of  which  could 
not  fall  much  below  twenty  thousand  dollars.  In  ad 
dition  to  all  this,  was  a  coffee  estate  on  the  island  of 
Porto  Rico.  But  as  to  its  extent,  or  value,  no«  evi 
dence  appeared.  It  might  now  be  richly  productive, 
or  a  mere  tropical  wilderness.  If  productive,  no  evi 
dence  of  any  return-  since  Captain  Allen's  death  ap 
peared. 

The  winter  passed  without  any  apparent  movement 
on  the  part  of  the  executors  looking  to  the  discovery 
of  Mrs.  Allen's  heirs.  Young  Dewey  came  up  from 
New  York  every  few  weeks,  to  hold  business  inter 
views  with  his  uncle  and  Squire  Floyd,  touching  the 
mill-extension  which  was  fully  determined  upon ; 
Judge  Bigelow  agreeing  to  invest  twenty  thousand 
dollars,  and  the  nephew  ten  thousand.  All  these  mat 
ters  were  talked  of  in  the  beginning,  freely,  before 
Wallingford,  who  still  had  his  office  with  his  old  pre 
ceptor,  and  shared  in  his  business.  After  a  while,  he 
noticed  a  growing  reserve  on  the  part  of  Judge  Bige 
low  and  Squire  Floyd,  when  he  was  by,  touching  their 
private  affairs ;  and  then  they  ceased  entirely  all  refer 
ence  thereto. 

Dewey  came  up  as  frequently  as  usual,  but  avoided 
any  remark  in  relation  to  business  while  in  the  pres 
ence  of  Wallingford.  During  his  stay  in  S , 

the  Judge  spent  but  little  time  at  the  office ;  being, 
for  the  most  part,  at  the  mill  with  his  nephew  and  the 
Squire. 

In  the  spring,  a  large  force  of  men  was  set  to  work 
on  the  extension  of  Squire  Floyd's  mill ;  and  as 


NO  SEARCH  FOR  THE  HEIRS.        153 

Judge  Bigelow  had  become  largely  interested  in  the 
new  enterprise,  he  gave  a  great  deal  more  attention  to 
what  was  going  on  in  that  direction,  than  to  the  busi 
ness  of  his  office,  the  heaviest  part  of  which  devolved 
upon  Mr.  Wallingford.  Still,  no  steps  were  taken  to 
discover  the  heirs  of  Mrs.  Allen.  Once  or  twice  Mr. 
Wallingford  had  approached  the  subject,  but  the 
Judge  made  no  response.  At  last,  he  put  the  question 
direct,  as  to  what  had  been  done.  The  Judge  seemed 
a  little  annoyed ;  but  said,  in  a  hurried  way  that  was 
unusual  with  him, 

"  I  must,  and  will  attend  to  this  matter  immediately. 
I  have  had  so  much  on  my  mind  that  it  has  been  ne 
glected." 

But  the  spring  months  passed — summer  glided  by 
— and  still  there  was  no  advertisement  for  heirs,  nor 
any  steps  taken,  so  far  as  Wallingford  could  learn,  to 
ascertain  their  existence. 

Mrs.  Montgomery  still  occupied  the  old  mansion, 
waiting  patiently  the  issue  whatever  it  might  be.  Her 
health,  I  regretted  to  find,  was  not  firm.  She  suffered 
a  great  deal  from  nervous  debility  ;  and  I  saw,  plainly, 
that  she  had  failed  considerably  during  the  past  few 
months.  Blanche,  on  the  contrary,  after  recovering 
from  the  illness  which  followed  immediately  on  her 

arrival  in  S ,  had  continued  in  excellent  health ; 

and  was  growing  daily  more  matured  and  womanly 
both  as  to  mental  development  and  personal  bearing. 

The  mill  improvements  went  on  all  summer,  exciting 
no  little  interest  in  our  town,  and  occasioning  no  small 
amount  of  talk  and  speculation.  It  was  some  time  in 


154  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND  NOW. 

the  fall  of  that  year,  that  I  was  permitted  to  hear  this 
brief  conversation  between  a  couple  of  townsmen.  Mr. 

A had  made  some  query  as  to  the  source  of  all 

the  money  expended  on  the  new  mill  of  Squire  Floyd, 
which  was  now  standing  forth,  under  roof,  in  most  im 
posing  proportions,  compared  with  the  old  works.  Mr. 
B shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  replied, 

"  Floyd  and  the  Judge  are  joint  executors  of  old 
Allen's  estate,  you  know.'* 

"  What  does  that  signify  ?"  inquired  Mr.  A . 

"  It  may  signify  a  great  deal.  They  have  trust 
funds  in  their  possession  to  a  large  amount,  I  am 
told." 

"  They  are  both  honorable  men,  and  would  not 
violate  their  trust,"  said  A . 

"I  will  not  gainsay  that,"  answered  Mr.  B . 

"  Still,  they  may  use  these  funds  temporarily,  and 


wrong  no  one." 


Nothing  more  was  said  in  my  presence,  but  I  turned 
their  remarks  over  and  over  again,  feeling  less  satisfied 
the  more  I  pondered  them.  A  day  or  two  afterwards 
I  met  Mr.  Wallingford,  and  said  to  him, 

"  How  comes  on  the  search  for  the  heirs  of  the 
Allen  estate?" 

The  question  caused  him  to  look  grave. 

"  No  progress  has  been  made,  so  far  as  I  can  learn," 
he  answered. 

"  Isn't  this  indifference  on  the  part  of  the  executors 
a  little  extraordinary  ?"  I  remarked. 

"  I  must  confess  that  I  do  not  understand  it,"  said 
the  young  lawyer. 


NEGLECT  OF  THE  EXECUTORS.        155 

"  There  is  personal,  as  well  a&  real  estate  ?" 

"Yes.     Stocks  worth  twenty  thousand  dollars." 

"  I  have  heard  it  suggested,  that  trust  funds  in  the 
case  are  going  into  Squire  Eloyd's  milL" 

Wallingford  started  at  the  suggestion,  and  looked 
for  some  moments  intently  in  my  face ;  then  dropped 
his  eyes,  and  stood  lost  in  thought  a  good  while. 

"  Where  did  you  hear  the  suggestion  ?"  he  at  length 
inquired. 

I  repeated  the  conversation  just  mentioned,  and 
named  the  individuals  with  whom  it  had  occurred. 

"And  now,  Henry,"  said  I,  "  put  this  hint,  and  the 
singular  neglect  of  the  executors  to  search  for  the  heirs 
to  the  Allen  property,  together,  and  tell  me  how  the 
matter  shapes  itself  in  your  mind.  We  speak  confiden 
tially  with  each  other,  of  course." 

"  I  don't  just  like  the  appearance  of  it,  that  is  all 
I  can  say,  Doctor,"  he  replied  in  a  half  absent  man 
ner. 

"As  you  represent  the  interests  of  Mrs.  Mont 
gomery,"  said  I,  "is  it  not  your  duty  to  look  a  little 
closer  into  this  matter?" 

"It  is ;  and  I  shall  give  it  immediate  attention." 

He  did  so,  and  to  his  surprise,  found  that  all  the 
bank  stock  had  been  sold,  and  transferred.  It  was 
now  plain  to  him  where  at  least  a  part  of  the  funds 
being  so  liberally  expended  on  the  mill  property  of 
Squire  Floyd  came  from.  On  venturing  to  make  some 
inquiries  of  Judge  Bigelow  bearing  on  the  subject,  that 
individual  showed  an  unusual  degree  of  irritation,  and 
intimated,  in  terms  not  to  be  misunderstood,  that  he 


156 

thought  himself  competent  to  manage  any  business  he 
might  undertake,  and  did  not  feel  disposed  to  tolerate 
any  intermeddling." 

From  that  time,  Wallingford  saw  that  a  separation 
from  his  old  preceptor  was  inevitable ;  and  he  so  shaped 
events,  that  in  less  than  three  months  he  made  the 
separation  easy  and  natural,  and  took  an  office  to  him 
self  alone. 

Still  there  was  no  movement  on  the  part  of  the 
executors  in  regard  to  the  valuable  estate  in  their 
hands.  Summer  and  fall  passed,  and  Christmas  saw 
the  splendid  improvements  of  Squire  Floyd  completed, 
and  the  new  mill  in  operation,  under  the  vigorous 
power  of  steam.  The  product  thus  secured  was  almost 
fabulous  in  the  eyes  of  the  half  asleep  and  awake  peo 
ple  of  S ,  many  of  whom  could  hardly  imagine 

people  enough  in  the  country  to  consume  the  miles  of 
cloth  that  came  streaming  out  from  the  rattling  looms. 
And  yet,  we  were  informed,  that  more  than  quadruple 
this  product  could  be  sold  by  the  extensive  house  of 
Floyd,  Lawson,  Lee,  &  Co. ;  and  that  all  that  stood  in 
the  way  of  creating  a  magnificent  fortune  out  of  cotton 
bales,  was  the  lack  of  productive  facilities. 

During  this  winter  I  saw  more  than  usual  of  Mrs. 
Dewey.  She  came  up  from  New  York  with  her  nurse 
and  child,  a  babe  not  quite  a  year  old,  and  spent  over 
six  weeks  with  her  parents.  She  had  lost,  in  the  two 
years  which  had  passed  since  her  marriage,  nearly  all 
those  beautiful  traits  of  character  which  made  her  once 
so  charming.  Fashionable  city  life  seemed  to  have 
spoiled  her  altogether.  Her  mind  had  not  grown  in 


DELIA'S  DISCONTENT.  157 

the  right  direction.  She  had  wholly  abandoned  that 
tasteful  reading  through  which  intellectual  refinement 
comes  ;  and  to  all  appearance,  no  longer  cared  for  any 
thing  beyond  the  mere  sensuous.  Nothing  in  S 

had  any  interest  for  her ;  and  she  scarcely  took  the 
pains  to  conceal  her  contempt  for  certain  sincere  and 
worthy  people,  who  felt  called  upon,  for  the  sake  of 
her  parents,  to  show  her  some  attention.  She  was  not 
happy,  of  course.  When  in  repose,  I  noticed  a  discon 
tented  look  on  her  face.  Her  eyes  had  lost  that  clear, 
innocent,  almost  child-like  beauty  of  expression,  that 
once  made  you  gaze  into  them ;  and  now  had  a  cold, 
absent,  or  eagerly  longing  expression,  as  if  her  thought 
were  straining  itself  forward  towards  some  coveted 
good. 

Her  conversation  was  almost  always  within  the 
range  of  New  York  fashionable  themes ;  and  barren 
of  any  food  upon  which  the  mind  could  grow.  There 
was  not  even  the  pretence  of  affection  between  her  and 
her  husband.  The  fairest  specimen  of  well  bred  in 
difference  I  had  yet  seen  was  exhibited  in  their  conduct 
to  each  other.  Their  babe  did  not  seem  to  be  a  mat 
ter  of  much  account  either.  Delia  took  no  personal 
care  of  it  whatever — leaving  all  this  to  the  nurse. 

It  happened  one  day  that  I  was  called  in  to  see  the 
child.  I  found  it  suffering  from  some  of  the  ill  effects 
of  difficult  dentition,  and  did  what  the  case  required. 
There  was  an  old  friend  of  Delia's  at  the  house — a 
young  lady  who  had  been  much  attached  to  her,  and 
who  still  retained  a  degree  of  her  old  friendship.  They 
were  talking  together  in  a  pleasant,  familiar  way, 


158  TWENTY   YEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 

when  I  came  down  stairs  from  my  visit  to  the  sick 
child — the  mother  had  not  shown  sufficient  interest  in 
the  little  sufferer  to  attend  me  to  the  nurse's  room. 
A  word  or  two  of  almost  careless  inquiry  was  made  ; 
— I  had  scarcely  answered  the  mother's  queries,  when 
her  friend  said,  in  a  laughing  way,  looking  from  the 
window  at  the  same  time, 

"There,  Delia !  see  what  you  escaped." 

I  turned  my  eyes  in  the  same  direction,  and  saw 
Mr.  Wallingford  walking  past,  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  street,  with  his  head  bent  down.  His  step  was 
slow,  but  firm,  and  his  air  and  carriage  manly. 

Delia  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  drew  up  the  cor 
ners  of  her  lips.  There  was  an  expression  very  much 
like  contempt  on  her  face.  But  she  did  not  make  any 
reply.  I  saw  this  expression  gradually  fade  away, 
and  her  countenance  grow  sober.  Her  friend  did  not 
pursue  the  Banter,  and  the  subject  dropped. 

What  she  had  escaped !  It  was  a  dark  day  in  the 
calendar  of  her  life,  when  she  made  that  escape ;  and 
I  think  there  must  have  been  times  when  a  conscious 
ness  of  this  fact  pressed  upon  her  soul  like  a  suffocat 
ing  nightmare. 


NOTICE   TO   REMOVE.  159 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

SPRING  opened  again,  and  the  days  glided  swiftly 
on  towards  summer ;  and  yet,  so  far  as  the  movements 
of  the  .executors  could  be  traced,  nothing  had  been 
done  in  the  work  of  searching  for  the  heirs.  One  day, 
early  in  June,  Mrs.  Montgomery  sent  for  Mr.  Walling- 
ford.  On  attending  her,  she  placed  in  his  hands  a 
communication  which  she  had  just  received.  It  was 
from  the  executors,  giving  notice  in  a  kind  and  respect 
ful  way,  that,  for  the  interest  of  the  legal  heirs,  and 
their  own  security,  it  would  be  necessary  for  them  to 
assume  full  possession  of  the  mansion  and  grounds, 
unless  she  felt  willing  to  pay  a  rental  that  was  equiva 
lent  to  the  interest  on  their  value. 

"I  have  expected  this,"  said  the  lady ;  " and,  so  far 
from  considering  myself  aggrieved,  feel  grateful  that  a 
quiet  residence  here  has  been  so  long  accorded  me." 

"  You  will  remove  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  other  course  left.  My  income  will  not 
justify  a  rent  of  some  three  thousand  dollars." 

"  As  the  property  is  unproductive,  no  such  rent  as 
that  will  be  required." 

"  The  letter  says,  '  a  rental  equivalent  to  the  interest 
on  their  value.' " 


160  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND   NOW. 

"  I  will  see  Judge  Bigelow  this  morning,  and  ascer 
tain  precisely  what  views  are  held  in  regard  to  this 
matter." 

They  were  sitting  near  one  of  the  parlor  windows 
that  looked  out  upon  the  portion  of  the  grounds  that 
sloped  away  towards  the  stream,  that  threw  its  white 
folds  of  water  from  one  rocky  ledge  to  another  in 
graceful  undulations.  As  Mr.  Wallingford  ceased 
speaking,  Mrs.  Montgomery  turned  her  head  quickly 
and  looked  out.  The  sound  of  voices  had  reached  her 
ears.  Three  men  had  entered  the  grounds,  and  were 
passing  the  window  at  a  short  distance. 

"Who  are  they?"  asked  Mr.  Wallingford.  Then, 
answering  his  own  question,  he  said,  "  Oh,  I  see ; 
Judge  Bigelow,  Squire  Floyd,  and  Ralph  Dewey,  his 
son-in-law." 

The  three  men,  after  going  a  few  hundred  rods  in 
the  direction  of  the  stream,  turned  and  stood  for  some 
minutes  looking  at  the  house,  and  talking  earnestly. 
Dewey  appeared  to  have  the  most  to  say,  and  gesticu 
lated  quite  freely.  Then  they  moved  on  to  that  por 
tion  of  the  stream  where  the  water  went  gliding  down 
the  mimic  rapids,  and  remained  there  for  a  considera 
ble  time.  It  was  plain  that  some  scheme  was  in  their 
heads,  for  they  took  measurement  by  pacing  off  the 
grounds  in  various  directions  ;  drew  together  in  close 
conference  at  times ;  then  separated,  each  making  some 
examination  for  himself;  and  again  stood  in  close  de 
liberation.  At  last,  as  if  satisfied  with  their  investi 
gations,  they  returned  by  way  of  the  mansion,  and 
passed  out  without  calling. 


PROPERTY  TO   BE   SOLD.  161 

"  Put  that  and  that  together,  and  there  is  a  mean 
ing  in  this  procedure  beyond  the  simple  rental  of  the 
place,"  said  Wallingford. 

"  What  is  your  inference  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Montgom 
ery. 

"  I  have  made  none  as  yet,"  he  replied.  "  But  I 
will  see  Judge  Bigelow,  and  have  some  talk  with  him. 

f  course,  I  can  have  nothing  to  say,  adverse  to  a  re 
quirement  of  rent.  Executors  are  responsible  for  the 
right  use  of  property  in  their  hands,  and  must  see  that 
it  produces  an  interest,  if  in  a  position  to  pay  any 
thing.  You  do  not,  of  course,  wish  to  occupy  the 
whole  of  these  grounds.  It  may  be,  that  the  use  of 
the  house,  garden,  lawn,  and  appurtenances,  may  be 
secured  at  a  moderate  rent.  If  so,  do  you  wish  to  re- 

'  O9  9 

mam  r 

"  I  would  prefer  remaining  here,  if  the  rent  is  within 
a  certain  sum. 

"  Say  three  hundred  dollars  ?" 

"  Yes.  If  not  beyond  that  sum,  I  will  remain,"  re 
plied  Mrs.  Montgomery. 

The  interview  which  Mr.  Wallingford  held  with 
Judge  Bigelow  a  few  hours  afterwards,  was  not  satis 
factory.  The  proposition  to  let  Mrs.  Montgomery  and 
her  daughter  occupy  the  house,  separate  from  the  ex 
tensive  grounds,  would  not  be  entertained.  It  finally 
came  out,  that  an  offer  to  purchase  had  been  made  by 
the  firm  of  Floyd,  Lawson,  Lee,  &  Co.,  with  a  view  to 
the  erection  of  extensive  mills,  and  that  the  executors 
were  going  to  ask  the  Court  for  power  to  sell,  as  a 
handsome  sum  could  now  be  obtained.  It  further  came 
11 


162  TWENTY   YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

out,  that  in  case  this  power  was  granted,  Mr.  Dewey 

was  to  reside  in  S ,  to  superintend  the  erection 

of  these  mills,  and  afterwards  to  join  Squire  Floyd  in 
the  management  of  both  establishments — a  consolida 
tion  of  interests  between  the  mercantile  and  manufac 
turing  branches  being  about  to  take  place.  The  old 
mansion  was  to  undergo  a  thorough  revision,  and  be 
come  the  domicile  of  the  resident  partner. 

With  these  plans  in  view,  the  executors  insisted 
upon  the  removal  of  Mrs.  Montgomery  ;  and  notice  as 
to  time  was  given,  which  included  three  months. 
Formal  application  was  made  to  the  Court  having 
power  in  the  case,  for  authority  to  sell  and  re-invest. 
The  reasons  for  so  doing  were  set  forth  in  detail,  and 
involved  plausible  arguments  in  favor  of  the  heirs 
whenever  they  should  be  found. 

Mr.  Wallingford  had  personal  reasons  for  not  wish 
ing  to  oppose  this  application.  The  executors  had 
been  his  friends  from  boyhood.  Especially  towards 
Judge  Bigelow  did  he  entertain  sentiments  of  deep 
gratitude  for  his  many  favors  and  kindnesses.  But 
his  duty,  as  counsel  to  Mrs.  Montgomery,  left  him  no 
alternative.  She  was  heir  prospective  to  this  property, 
and  he  did  not  believe  that  the  plans  in  view  were  best 
for  her  interests,  in  case  no  other  heir  was  found.  So, 
he  went  before  the  Court,  and  opposed  the  prayer  of 
the  executors.  In  doing  so,  he  gained  their  ill-will, 
but  did  not  succeed  in  preventing  a  decree  authorizing 
a  sale  of  the  property.  Dewey  was  present,  a  deeply 
interested  listener  to  the  arguments  that  were  ad 
vanced  on  both  sides.  After  the  decision,  as  Walling- 


REMOVAL  FROM  THE  ALLEN   HOUSE.  163 

ford  was  passing  from  the  court-room,  Dewey,  who 
stood  near  the  door,  talking  with  a  gentleman,  said> 
loud  enough  for  the  young  lawyer  to  hear  him. 

"  The  hound !  He  got  on  the  wrong  scent  that 
time!" 

A  feeling  of  indignation  stirred  in  "Wallingford's 
bosom  ;  but  he  repressed  the  bitter  feeling,  and  moved 
on  without  giving  any  intimation  that  the  offensive  re 
mark  had  reached  him. 

As  soon  as  this  decree,  authorizing  a  sale  of  the 
property,  was  made,  Mrs.  Montgomery  began  to  make 
preparation  for  removal.  At  first  she  seemed  inclined 
to  favor  a  return  to  England ;  but  after  repeated  con 
ferences  with  Mr.  Wallingford,  she  finally  concluded 
to  remain  in  this  country. 

Nearly  three  years  had  woven  their  many  colored 
web  of  events,  since  Mrs.  Montgomery  had  dropped 
down  suddenly  among  us  like  a  being  from  cloudland. 
The  friendly  relation  established  between  us  in  the 
beginning,  had.  continued,  growing  more  and  more  in 
timate.  My  good  Constance  found  in  her  a  woman 
after  her  own  heart. 

"  The  days  I  spend  at  the  Allen  House,"  she  would 
often  say  to  me,  "are  days  to  be  remembered.  I 
meet  with  no  one  who  lives  in  so  pure  and  tranquil  an 
atmosphere  as  Mrs.  Montgomery.  An  hour  with  her 
lifts  me  above  the  petty  cares  and  selfish  struggles  of 
this  life,  and  fills  my  mind  with  longings  after  those 
higher  things  into  which  all  must  rise  before  that  peace 
comes  to  the  soul  which  passeth  all  understanding.  I 
return  home  from  these  interviews,  happier  in  mind, 


164 

and  stronger  for  life's  duties.  I  do  not  know  any  term 
that  so  clearly  expresses  my  idea  of  this  lady,  as  Chris 
tian  philosopher." 

Occasionally  Mrs.  Montgomery  would  pay  us  a  visit ; 
and  these  also  were  times  treasured  up  in  my  wife's 
rememhrance.  I  always  observed  a  certain  elevation 
of  feeling,  a  calmer  spirit,  and  a  more  loving  sphere 
about  her  after  one  of  these  pleasant  seasons. 

The  daughter  came  very  often.  Our  children  loved 
her  almost  as  much  as  they  did  their  mother,  and  she 
seemed  as  happy  with  them,  as  if  they  were  her  own 
flesh  and  blood.  Agnes,  our  oldest,  now  in  her  eighth 
year,  almost  lived  at  the  Allen  House.  Blanche  never 
came  without  taking  her  home  with  her,  and  often  kept 
her  for  two  or  three  days  at  a  time. 

Blanche  had  developed  into  a  young  woman  of 
almost  queenly  beauty ;  yet  her  manners  retained  the 
easy  grace  and  truthfulness  of  a  child.  She  did  not 
seem  conscious  of  her  remarkable  personal  attractions : 
nor  of  the  admiration  her  presence  always  extorted. 
No  one  could  meet  her,  as  a  stranger,  without  feeling 
that  she  stood  removed  from  ordinary  contact — a  be 
ing  of  superior  mould  with  whom  familiarity  was  pre 
sumption. 

The  companion  of  such  a  mother,  who  had  with  ten 
der  solicitude,  from  childhood  upwards,  guarded  all  the 
avenues  of  her  mind,  lest  false  principles  or  false  views 
of  things  should  find  entrance ;  and  as  carefully  se 
lected  her  mental  food,  in  order  that  there  might  be 
health  of  mind  as  well  as  health  of  body — it  was  not 
surprising  to  find  about  her  a  solidity  and  strength  of 


CHANGE   OF  RESIDENCE.  165 

character,  that  showed  itself  beneath  the  sweet  grace 
of  her  external  life,  whenever  occasion  for  their  exhi 
bition  arose.  From  her  mother  she  had  imbibed  a  deep 
religious  sentiment ;  but  this  did  not  manifest  itself  so 
much  in  language,  as  in  dutiful  acts.  I  had  often  occa 
sion  to  notice,  how,  almost  instinctively,  she  referred 
all  things  to  a  superintending  Providence ;  and  looked 
into  the  future,  veiled  as  it  is  to  all  eyes,  with  a  confi 
dence  that  every  thing  would  come  out  right,  beautiful 
to  contemplate.  What  she  meant  by  right,  was  some 
thing  more  than  is  usually  included  in  the  words ;  for 
she  had  learned  from  her  wise  teacher,  that  God's  pro 
vidence  disposes  the  things  of  this  world  for  every  in 
dividual  in  a  way  that  serves  best  his  eternal  interests ; 
therefore,  what  was  best  in  this  sense,  could  not  fail  to 
be  right. 

To  our  deep  regret,  Mrs.  Montgomery  decided  to 

change  the  place  of  her  residence  from  S to 

Boston.  All  the  reasons  that  led  her  to  this  decision, 
I  was  not  able  to  discover.  Her  life  at  the  Allen 
House  had  been  quite  secluded.  She  had  been 
courteous  to  all  the  people  with  whom  she  was  brought 
into  any  degree  of  contact,  and  had  reciprocated  all 
friendly  visits ;  but  there  was  a  certain  distance 
between  her  and  them,  that  it  seemed  impossible  for 
either  to  pass  over.  One  of  my  inferences  was,  that,  in 
removing  from  the  retired  old  mansion,  and  taking  a 
modern  house,  she  would  stand  out  more  prominently 
before  all  eyes  than  was  agreeable  to  her.  Be  this  as 
it  may,  she  was  in  earnest  about  removing  to  Boston. 

I  happened  to  be  present  when  the  announcement 


166  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,  AND   NOW. 

of  this  purposed  removal  was  made  to  Mr.  Wallingford. 
He  had  called  in,  during  one  of  my  visits  to  Mrs. 
Montgomery,  for  the  transaction  of  some  business. 

"  To  Boston  ?"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  surprise,  and,  I 
thought,  disappointment.  At  the  same  time  I  saw  his 
eyes  turned  towards  Blanche. 

"  Yes  ;  I  think  it  will  be  best,"  she  replied.  "  If  I 
have  any  interests  here,  I  feel  that  they  are  safe  in 
your  hands,  Mr.  Wallingford." 

She  leaned  a  little  towards  him,  and  I  thought  her 
voice  had  in  it  a  softer  tone  than  usual.  Her  eyes 
looked  steadily  into  his  face. 

"  I  will  do  all  that  is  right,  madam."  He  spoke  a 
little  lower  than  usual. 

"  And  the  right  is  always  the  best  in  any  case,  Mr. 
Wallingford,"  said  she  with  feeling. 

"  How  soon  do  you  think  of  removing?"  the  young 
man  inquired. 

"In  three  or  four  weeks." 
"  So  soon." 

Again  I  noticed  that  his  eyes  wandered  towards 
Blanche,  who  sat  close  to  her  mother,  with  her  face 
bent  down  and  turned  partly  away. 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  we  should  linger  in  S , 

after  all  things  are  ready  for  removal.  It  would  have 
suited  my  feelings  and  habits  of  mind  to  have  remained 
here  ;  but  as  this  cannot  be,  I  prefer  going  to  Boston 
on  more  than  one  account." 

"You  will  leave  behind  you  many  sincere  friends," 
said  Wallingford. 

There  was  more  feeling  in  his  voice  than*  usually 


REMOVAL   TO   BOSTON.  167 

showed  itself;  and  I  again  observed  that  Mrs.  Mont 
gomery,  in  responding  to  the  remark,  fixed  her  eyes 
upon  him  steadily,  and  with,  I  thought,  a  look  of  more 
than  usual  interest. 

The  few  weeks  of  preparation  glided  swiftly  away, 
and  then  we  parted  from  friends  who  had  won  their 
way  into  our  own  hearts  ;  and  whose  memory  would 
ever  be  to  us  like  the  fragrance  of  holy  incense.  I 
learned  from  Mrs.  Montgomery,  before  she  left  us, 
during  a  more  confidential  talk  than  usual,  that  her 
income  was  comparatively  small,  and  that  the  chief 
part  of  this,  a  pension  from  Government  in  acknowledg 
ment  of  her  husband's  services,  would  cease  at  her  death. 
There  was  a  momentary  failure  in  her  voice  as  she  said 
this,  and  her  eyes  turned  with  the  instinct  of  love 
towards  Blanche. 

At  her  desire,  Mr.  Wallingford  attended  them  to 
Boston,  and  remained  away  for  three  or  four  days. 

He  then  returned  to  S ,  bringing  with  him  kind 

words  from  the  absent  ones.  The  old  routine  of  life 
went  on  again,  each  of  us  taking  up  the  daily  duty ; 
yet  I  think  there  was  not  one  of  the  favored  few  who 
had  known  Mrs.  Montgomery  and  her  daughter  inti 
mately,  that  was  not  stronger  to  do  right  in  every  trial 
for  the  memory  of  these  true-hearted  strangers — no, 
friends ! 


168  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

IT  was  in  October  when  Mrs.  Montgomery,  after  a 
residence  of  three  years  in  the  Allen  House,  went 
from  among  us.  Old  "  Aunty,"  and  another  colored 
servant  who  had  lived  with  Mrs.  Allen,  remained  in 
charge  of  the  mansion.  There  was,  of  course,  no  re 
moval  of  furniture,  as  that  belonged  to  the  estate. 
Mrs.  Montgomery  had  brought  with  her  three  servants 
from  England,  a  coachman,  footman,  and  maid.  The 
footman  was  sent  back  after  he  had  been  a  year  in  the 
country ;  but  the  coachman  and  maid  still  lived  with 
her,  and  accompanied  her  to  Boston. 

The  large  schemes  of  men  ambitious  for  gain,  will 
not  suffer  them  to  linger  by  the  way.  Ralph  Dewey 
had  set  his  mind  on  getting  possession,  jointly  with 
others,  of  the  valuable  Allen  property;  and  as  the 
Court  had  granted  a  decree  of  sale,  he  urged  upon  his 
father-in-law  and  uncle  an  early  day  for  its  consum 
mation.  They  were  in  heart,  honorable  men,  but  they 
had  embarked  in  grand  enterprises  with  at  least  one 
dishonest  compeer,  and  were  carried  forward  by  an 
impulse  which  they  had  not  the  courage  or  force  of 
character  to  resist.  They  thought  that  spring  would 
be  the  best  time  to  offer  the  property  for  sale ;  but 


SALE  OF  THE  ALLEN  HOUSE.        169 

Dewey  urged  the  fall  as  more  consonant  with  their 
views,  and  so  the  sale  was  fixed  for  the  first  day  of 
November.  Notice  was  given  in  the  country  papers, 
and  Dewey  engaged  to  see  that  the  proposed  sale  was 
duly  advertised  in  Boston  and  New  York.  He  ma 
naged,  however,  to  omit  that  part  of  his  duty. 

On  the  day  of  sale,  quite  a  company  of  curious  peo 
ple  assembled  at  the  Allen  House,  but  when  the  pro 
perty  was  offered,  only  a  single  bid  was  offered.  That 
came  from  Dewey,  as  the  representative  of  Floyd, 
Lawson,  Lee  &  Co.,  and  it  was  awarded  to  them  for 
the  sum  of  thirty-five  thousand  dollars,  a  little  more 
than  half  its  real  value. 

From  that  time  until  spring  opened,  all  remained 
quiet.  Then  began  the  busy  hum  of  preparation,  and 
great  things  for  our  town  foreshadowed  themselves. 
A  hundred  men  went  to  work  on  the  site  chosen  for  a 
new  mill,  digging,  blasting,  and  hauling ;  while  carpen 
ters  and  masons  were  busy  in  and  around  the  old  man 
sion,  with  a  view  to  its  thorough  renovation,  as  the 
future  residence  of  Mr.  Ralph  Dewey.  That  gentle 
man  was  on  the  ground,  moving  about  with  a  self-suffi 
cient  air,  and  giving  his  orders  in  a  tone  of  authority 
that  most  of  the  work  people  felt  to  be  offensive. 

The  antiquated  furniture  in  the  Allen  House,  rich 
though  it  was  in  style  and  finish,  would  not  suit  our 
prospective  millionaire,  and  it  was  all  sent  to  auction. 
From  the  auctioneers,  it  was  scattered  among  the 
town's  people,  who  obtained  some  rare  bargains.  An 
old  French  secretary  came  into  my  possession,  at  the 
cost  of  ten  dollars — the  original  owner  could  not  have 


170 

paid  less  than  a  hundred.  It  was  curiously  inlaid 
with  satin  wood,  and  rich  in  quaint  carvings.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  end  to  the  discoveries  I  was  continu 
ally  making  among  its  intricate  series  of  drawers, 
pigeon  holes,  slides,  and  hidden  receptacles.  But 
some  one  had  preceded  me  in  the  examination,  and 
had  removed  all  the  papers  and  documents  it  con 
tained.  It  flashed  across  my  mind,  as  I  explored  the 
mazes  of  this  old  piece  of  furniture,  that  it  might 
contain,  in  some  secret  drawer,  another  will.  This 
thought  caused  the  blood  to  leap  along  my  veins,  my 
cheeks  to  burn,  and  my  hands  to  tremble.  I  renewed 
the  examination,  at  first  hurriedly;  then  with  order 
and  deliberation,  taking  out  each  drawer,  and  feeling 
carefully  all  around  the  cavity  left  by  its  removal, 
in  the  hope  of  touching  some  hidden  spring.  But  the 
search  was  fruitless.  One  drawer  perplexed  me  con 
siderably.  I  could  not  pull  it  clear  out,  nor  get  access 
above  or  below  to  see  how  closely  the  various  partitions 
and  compartments  came  up  to  its  sides;  top,  and  bot 
tom.  After  working  with  it  for  some  time,  I  gave  up 
the  search,  and  my  enthusiasm  in  this  direction  soon 
died  out.  I  smiled  to  myself  many  times  afterwards, 
in  thinking  of  the  idle  fancy  which  for  a  time  pos 
sessed  me. 

In  May,  the  furnishing  of  the  renovated  house  be 
gan.  This  took  nearly  a  month.  Every  thing  was 
brought  from  New  York.  Car  loads  of  enormous 
boxes,  bales,  and  articles  not  made  up  into  packages, 
were  constantly  arriving  at  the  depot,  and  being  con 
veyed  to  the  Allen  House — the  designation  which  the 


SHOWY   CHANGES.  171 

property  retains  even  to  this  day.  The  furniture  was 
of  the  richest  kind — the  carpets,  curtains,  and  mirrors, 
princely  in  elegance.  When  all  was  ready  for  the 
proud  owners  to  come  in  and  enjoy  their  splendid 
home,  it  was  thrown  open  for  examination  and  admi 
ration.  All  S went  to  see  the  show,  and  wan 
der  in  dreamy  amazement  through  parlors,  halls,  and 
chambers.  I  went  with  the  rest.  The  change  seemed 
like  the  work  of  magic.  I  could  with  difficulty  make 
out  the  old  landmarks.  The  spacious  rooms,  newly 
painted  and  decked  out  in  rich,  modern  furniture, 
looked  still  more  spacious.  In  place  of  the  white 
washed  ceilings  and  dingy  papered  walls,  graceful 
frescoes  spread  their  light  figures,  entrancing  the  eyes 
with  their  marvelous  semblances.  The  great  hall  re 
ceived  you  with  a  statelier  formality  than  before ;  for 
it,  too,  had  received  also  its  gift  of  painting,  and  its 
golden  broideries.  As  you  passed  from  room  to  room, 
you  said — "This1  is  the  palace  of  a  prince — not  the 
abode  of  a  citizen." 

The  grounds  around  the  mansion  had  been  subject 
to  as  thorough  a  renovation  as  the  mansion  itself. 
The  old  gate  had  given  place  to  one  of  larger  propor 
tions,  and  more  imposing  design.  A  new  carriage- 
road  swept  away  in  a  grander  curve  from  the  gate  to 
the  dwelling.  Substantial  stone-stabling  had  been 
torn  down  in  order  to  erect  a  fanciful  carriage-house, 
built  in  imitation  of  a  Swiss  cottage ;  which,  from  its 
singular  want  of  harmony  with  the  principal  buildings, 
stood  forth  a  perpetual  commentary  upon  the  false 
taste  of  the  upstart  owner. 


172 

I  hardly  think  that  either  Mr.  Dewey  or  his  wife 
would  have  been  much  flattered  by  the  general  tone 
of  remark  that  ran  through  the  curious  crowds  that 
lingered  in  the  elegant  rooms,  or  inspected  the  im 
provements  outside.  Nobody  liked  him ;  and  as  for 
his  wife,  fashionable  associations  had  so  spoiled  her, 
that  not  a  single  old  friend  retained  either  affection  or 
respect.  It  was  sad  to  think  that  three  years  of  a  false 
life  could  so  entirely  obliterate  the  good  qualities  that 
once  blossomed  in  her  soul  with  such  a  sweet  promise 
of  golden  fruitage. 

Early  in  June,  the  family  of  Mr.  Dewey  took  pos 
session  of  their  new  home,  and  the  occasion  was  cele 
brated  by  a  splendid  entertainment,  the  cost  of  which, 
common  rumor  said,  was  over  two  thousand  dollars. 
We — Constance  and  I — were  among  the  invited  guests. 
It  was  a  festive  scene,  brilliant  and  extravagant  beyond 
anything  we  had  ever  witnessed,  and  quite  bewildering 
to  minds  like  ours.  Mrs.  Dewey  was  dressed  like  a 
queen,  and  radiant  in  pearls  and  diamonds.  I  ques 
tioned  her  good  taste  in  this,  as  hostess ;  and  think 
she  knew  better — but  the  temptation  to  astonish  the 
good  people  of  S was  too  strong  to  be  resisted. 

After  the  curtain  fell  on  this  brilliant  spectacle, 
Mrs.  Dewey  assumed  a  stately  air,  showing,  on  all  oc 
casions,  a  conscious  superiority  that  was  offensive  to 
our  really  best  people.  There  are  in  all  communities 
a  class  who  toady  to  the  rich ;  and  we  had  a  few  of 

these  in  S .  They  flattered  the  Deweys,  and 

basked  in  the  sunshine  of  their  inflated  grandeur. 

I  was  not  one  towards  whom  Mrs.  Dewey  put  on 


DELIA'S  ENNUI.  173 

superior  airs.  My  profession  brought  me  into  a  kind 
of  relation  to  her  that  set  aside  all  pretence.  Very- 
soon  after  her  removal  to  S ,  my  services  were 

required  in  the  family,  one  of  her  two  children  having 
been  attacked  with  measles.  On  the  occasion  of  my 
first  call,  I  referred,  naturally,  to  the  fact  of  her  re 
moval  from  New  York,  and  asked  how  she  liked  the 
change. 

"  I  don't  like  it  all,  Doctor,"  she  replied,  in  a  dis 
satisfied  tone. 

"  Could  heart  desire  more  of  elegance  and  comfort 
than  you  possess?"  I  glanced  around  the  richly 
decorated  apartment  in  which  we  were  seated. 

"  Gilded  misery,  Doctor !"  She  emphasized  her 
words. 

I  looked  at  her  without  speaking.  She  understood 
my  expression  of  surprise. 

"  I  need  not  tell  you,  Doctor,  that  a  fine  house  and 
fine  furniture  are  not  everything  in  this  world." 

I  thought  her  waking  up  to  a  better  state  of  mind, 
through  the  irrepressible  yearnings  of  a  soul  that  could 
find  no  sustenance  amid  the  husks  of  this  outer  life. 

"  They  go  but  a  little  way  towards  making  up  the 
aggregate  of  human  happiness,"  said  I. 

"  All  well  enough  in  their  place.  But,  to  my  think 
ing,  sadly  out  of  place  here.  We  must  have  society, 
Doctor." 

"  True."  My  voice  was  a  little  rough.  I  had  mis 
taken  her. 

"But  there  is  no  society  here !"  And  she  tossed 
her  head  a  little  contemptuously. 


174  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

"Not  much  fashionable  society  I  will  grant  you, 
Delia." 

She  pursed  up  her  lips  and  looked  disagreeable. 

"  I  shall  die  of  ennui  before  six  months.  What  am 
I  to  do  with  myself?" 

"Act  like  a  true  woman,"  said  I,  firmly. 

She  lifted  her  eyes  suddenly  to  my  face  as  if  I  had 
presumed. 

"Do  your  duty  as  a  wife  and  mother,"  I  added, 
"  and  there  will  be  no  danger  of  your  dying  with 
ennui." 

"You  speak  as  if  I  were  derelict  in  this  matter." 

She  drew  herself  up  with  some  dignity  of  manner. 

"  I  merely  prescribed  a  remedy  for  a  disease  from 
which  you  are  suffering,"  said  I,  calmly.  "  Thousands 
of  women  scattered  all  over  the  land  are  martyrs  to 
this  disease ;  and  there  is  only  one  remedy — that  which 
I  offer  to  you,  Delia." 

I  think  she  saw,  from  my  manner,  that  it  would  be 
useless  to  quarrel  with  me.  I  was  so  much  in  earnest 
that  truth  came  to  my  lips  in  any  attempt  at  utterance. 

"What  would  you  have  me  do,  Doctor?"  There 
was  a  petty  fretfulness  in  her  voice.  "  Turn  cook  or 
nursery-maid  ?" 

"  Yes,  rather  than  sit  idle,  and  let  your  restless 
mind  fret  itself  for  want  of  useful  employment  into 
unhappiness." 

"I  cannot  take  your  prescription  in  that  crude 
form,"  she  replied,  with  more  seriousness  than  I  had 
expected. 

"It  is  not  requisite  to  a  cure,"  said  I.     "  Only  let 


REMEDY   FOR   ENNUI.  175 

your  thought  and  purpose  fall  into  the  sphere  of  home. 
Think  of  your  husband  as  one  to  be  made  happier  by 
your  personal  control  of  such  household  matters  as 
touch  his  comfort ;  of  your  babes  as  tender,  precious 
things,  blessed  by  your  sleepless  care,  or  hurt  by  your 
neglect ;  of  your  domestics,  as  requiring  orderly  super 
vision,  lest  they  bring  discord  into  your  home,  or  waste 
your  substance.  Every  household,  Delia,  is  a  little 
government,  and  the  governor  must  be  as  watchful 
over  all  its  concerns  as  the  governor  of  a  state.  Take, 
then,  the  reins  of  office  firmly  into  your  hands,  dis 
pose  of  everything  according  to  the  best  of  your  judg 
ment,  and  require  orderly  obedience  from  every  sub 
ject.  But  act  wisely  and  kindly.  Do  this,  my  young 
friend,  and  you  will  not  be  troubled  with  the  fashion 
able  complaint — ennui." 

"  That  is,  sink  down  into  a  mere  housekeeper,"  she 
remarked;  "weigh  out  the  flour,  count  the  eggs,  fill 
the  sugar  bowls,  and  grow  learned  in  cookery-books. 
I  think  I  see  myself  wandering  about  from  cellar  to 
garret,  jingling  a  great  bunch  of  keys,  prying  into 
rubbish-corners,  and  scolding  lazy  cooks  and  idle 
chambermaids ! " 

She  laughed  a  short,  artificial  laugh,  and  then 
added — 

" Is  that  the  picture  of  what  you  mean,  Doctor?" 

"It  is  the  picture  of  a  happier  woman  than  you  are, 
Delia,"  said  I,  seriously. 

The  suggestion  seemed  to  startle  her. 

"You  speak  very  confidently,  Doctor." 

"With  the  confidence  of  one  who  makes  diseases 


176  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND  NOW. 

and  their  cure  his  study.  I  know  something  of  the 
human  soul  as  well  as  the  human  body,  and  of  the 
maladies  to  which  both  are  subjected.  A  cure  is 
hopeless  in  either  case,  unless  the  patient  will  accept 
the  remedy.  Pain  of  body  is  the  indicator  of  disease, 
and  gives  warning  that  an  enemy  to  life  has  found  a 
lodgment ;  pain  of  mind  is  the  same  phenomenon, 
only  showing  itself  in  a  higher  sphere,  and  for  the 
same  purpose.  If  you  are  unhappy,  surrounded  by 
all  this  elegance,  and  with  the  means  of  gratifying 
every  orderly  wish,  it  shows  that  an  enemy  to  your 
soul  has  entered  through  some  unguarded  gateway. 
You  cannot  get  rid  of  this  enemy  by  any  change  of 
place,  or  by  any  new  associations.  Society  will  not 
help  you.  The  excitement  of  shows;  gauds,  glitter, 
pageants ;  the  brief  triumphs  gained  in  fashionable 
tournaments,  will  not  expel  this  foe  of  your  higher  and 
nobler  life,  but  only  veil,  for  brief  seasons,  his  presence 
from  your  consciousness.  When  these  are  past,  and 
you  retire  into  yourself,  then  comes  back  the  pain,  the 
languor,  the  excessive  weariness.  Is  it  not  so,  Delia? 
Is  not  this  your  sad  experience?" 

I  paused.  Her  eyes  had  fallen  to  the  floor.  She 
sat  very  still,  like  one  who  was  thinking  deeply. 

"  The  plodding  housekeeper,  whose  picture  you  drew 
just  now — humble,  even  mean  in  your  regard  though 
she  be — sinks  to  peaceful  sleep  when  her  tasks  are 
done,  and  risks  refreshed  at  coming  dawn.  If  she  is 
happier  than  your  fine  lady,  whose  dainty  hands  can 
not  bear  the  soil  of  these  common  things,  why  ?  Pon 
der  this  subject,  Delia.  It  concerns  you  deeply.  It 


MIPERY  OF   FASHIONABLE   IDLERS.  177 

is  the  happiest  state  in  life  that  we  all  strive  to  gain ; 
but  you  may  lay  it  up  in  your  heart  as  immutable 
truth,  that  happiness  never  comes  to  any  one,  except 
through  a  useful  employment  of  all  the  powers  which 
God  has  given  to  us.  The  idle  are  the  most  miserable 
— and  none  are  more  miserable  in  their  ever-recurring 
ennuied  hours,  than  your  fashionable  idlers.  We  see 
them  only  in  their  holiday  attire,  tricked  out  for  show, 
and  radiant  in  reflected  smiles.  Alas  !  If  we  could 
go  back  with  them  to  their  homes,  and  sit  beside  them, 
unseen,  in  their  lonely  hours,  would  not  pity  fill  our 
hearts  ?  My  dear  young  friend !  Turn  your  feet 
aside  from  this  way — it  is  the  path  that  leads  to  unut 
terable  wretchedness." 

The  earnestness  of  my  manner  added  force  to  what 
I  said,  and  constrained  at  least  a  momentary  convic 
tion. 

"  You  speak  strongly,  Doctor,"  she  said,  with  the 
air  of  one  who  could  not  look  aside  from  an  unpleas 
ant  truth. 

"  Not  too  strongly,  Delia.  Is  it  not  as  I  have  said  ? 
Are  not  your  mere  society-ladies  too  often  miserable 
at  home?" 

She  sighed  heavily,  as  if  unpleasant  images  were 
forcing  themselves  upon  her  mind.  I  felt  that  I  might 
follow  up  the  impression  I  had  made,  and  resumed : 

"  There  was  a  time,  Delia — and  it  lies  only  three  or 
four  short  years  backward  on  your  path  of  life — when 
I  read  in  your  opening  mind  a  promise  of  higher  things 
than  have  yet  been  attained — you  must  pardon  the 

freedom  of  an   old  but  true  friend,     A  time  when 
12 


178  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

thought,  taste,  feeling  were  all  building  for  themselves 
a  habitation,  the  stones  whereof  were  truths,  and  the 
decorations  within  and  without  pure  and  •  good  affec 
tions.  All  this — "  I  glanced  at  the  rich  furniture, 
mirrors,  and  curtains — uis  poor  and  mean  to  that 
dwelling  place  of  the  soul,  the  foundations  for  which 
you  once  commenced  laying.  Are  you  happier  now 
than  then?  Have  the  lialf  bewildering  experiences 
through  which  you  have  passed  satisfied  you  that  you 
are  in  the  right  way  ?  That  life's  highest  blessings 
are  to  be  found  in  these  pageantries  ?  Think,  think, 
my  dear  young  friend  !  Look  inwards.  Search  into 
your  heart,  and  try  the  quality  of  its  motives.  Exam 
ine  the  foundation  upon  which  you  are  building,  and 
if  it  is  sand,  in  heaven's  name  stop,  and  look  for  solid 
earth  on  which  to  place  the  corner  stone  of  your  tem 
ple  of  happiness." 

"  You  bewilder  me,  Doctor,"  she  said,  in  reply  to 
this.  "  I  can't  think,  I  can't  look  inwards.  If  I  am 
building  on  a  sandy  foundation,  God  help  me  ! — for  I 
cannot  turn  back  to  search  for  the  solid  earth  of  which 
you  speak." 

"But—" 

She  raised  her  hand  and  said, 

"  Spare  me,  Doctor.  I  know  you  are  truthful  and 
sincere — a  friend  who  may  be  trusted — but  you  cannot 
see  as  1  see,  nor  know  as  I  know.  I  have  chosen  my 
way,  and  must  walk  in  it,  even  to  the  end,  let  it  term 
inate  as  it  will.  I  had  once  a  dream  of  other  things 
— a  sweet,  entrancing  dream  while  it  lasted — but  to  me 
it  can  never  be  more  than  a  dream.  There  are  quiet, 


THE   SUBJECT   CHANGED.  179 

secluded,  peaceful  ways  in  life,  and  happy  are  they 
who  are  content  to  walk  in  them.  But  they  are  not 
for  my  feet,  and  I  do  not  envy  those  who  hide  them 
selves  in  tranquil  valleys,  or  linger  on  the  distant  hill- 
slopes.  The  crowd,  the  hum,  the  shock  of  social  life 
forme!" 

"  But  this  you  cannot  have  in  S .  And  is  it 

not  the  part  of  a  wise  woman — " 

"  Again,  Doctor,  let  me  beg  of  you  to  spare  me," 
she  said,  lifting  her  hands,  and  turning  her  face  partly 
away.  "  I  only  half  comprehend  you,  and  am  hurt 
and  disturbed  by  your  well-meant  suggestions.  I  am 
not  a  wise  woman,  in  your  sense  of  the  word,  and  can 
not  take  your  admonitions  to  heart.  Let  us  talk  of 
something  else." 

And  she  changed  the  subject,  as  well  as  her  whole 
manner  and  expression  of  countenance,  with  a  prompt 
ness  that  surprised  me ;  showing  the  existence  of  will 
and  self-control  that  in  a  right  direction  would  have 
given  her  large  power  for  good. 

It  was  the  first  and  last  time  I  ventured  to  speak  with 
her  so  freely.  Always  afterwards,  when  we  met,  there 
was  an  impression  of  uneasiness  on  her  part,  as  if  she 
had  an  unpleasant  remembrance,  or  feared  that  I  would 
venture  upon  some  disagreeable  theme. 


180  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

STEADILY,  under  the  busy  hands  of  hundreds  of 
workmen,  the  new  buildings  arose,  stretching  their  far 
lengths  along,  and  towering  np,  story  after  story. 
Steam,  in  addition  to  water  power,  was  contemplated 
here  also,  for  the  looms  and  spindles  to  be  driven  were 
nearly  twice  the  number  contained  in  the  other  mill. 

Disappointments  and  vexatious  delays  nearly  always 
attend  large  building  operations,  and  the  present  case 
formed  no  exception.  The  time  within  which  every 
thing  was  to  be  completed,  and  the  mill  to  go  into 
operation,  was  one  year.  Two  years  elapsed  before 
the  first  bale  of  goods  came  through  its  ample  doors, 
ready  for  market. 

Of  course  there  was  a  large  expenditure  of  money  in 

S ,  and   this  was    a   great   thing   for  our  town. 

Property  rose  in  value,  houses  were  built,  and  the 
whole  community  felt  that  a  new  era  had  dawned — an 
era  of  growth  and  prosperity.  Among  other  signs  of 
advancement,  was  the  establishment  of  a  new  Bank. 
The  "Clinton  Bank"  it  was  called.  The  charter  had 
been  obtained  through  the  influence  of  Judge  Bigelow, 
who  had  several  warm  personal  friends  in  the  Legisla 
ture.  There  was  not  a  great  deal  of  loose  money  in 


THE   CLINTON  BANK.  181 

S to  flow  easily  into  bank  s  tocks ;  but  for  all  that 

the  shares  were  soon  taken,  and  all  the  provisions  of 
the  charter  complied  with.  Judge  Bigelow  subscribed 
freely ;  so  did  Squire  Floyd  and  Mr.  Dewey.  Other 
townsmen,  to  the  number  of  twenty  or  thirty,  put 
down  their  names  for  a  few  shares.  It  was  from  New 
York,  however,  that  the  largest  subscriptions  came ; 
and  it  was  New  York  shareholders,  voting  by  proxy, 
who  elected  the  Board  of  Directors,  and  determined 
the  choice  of  officers.  Judge  Bigelow  was  elected 
President,  and  a  Mr.  Joshua  King,  from  New  York, 
Cashier.  The  tellers  and  book-keepers  were  selected 
from  among  our  own  people. 

The  Clinton  Bank  and  the  new  mills  went  into  ope 
ration  about  the  same  time.  Years  of  prosperity  fol 
lowed.  Money  was  plenty  in  our  town,  and  everybody 
was  growing  better  off.  Dewey  was  still  the  manufac 
turing  partner  of  the  large  house  in  New  York, 
whose  demand  for  goods  it  seemed  impossible  to  satisfy. 

He  was  a  great  man  in  S .  People  spoke  of 

him  as  possessing  vast  mental  as  well  as  money  re 
sources  ;  as  having  expansive  views  of  trade  and  fi 
nance  ;  as  being  a  man  of  extraordinary  ability.  I 
listened  to  all  these  things  as  I  passed  around  among 
our  citizens,  plodding  along  In  my  profession,  and 
managing  to  grow  just  a  little  better  off  each  year ; 
and  wondered  within  myself  if  I  were  really  mistaken 
in  the  man — if  there  was  a  solid  basis  of  right  judg 
ment  below  all  this  splendid  seeming. 

And  what  of  our  friend  Wallingford,  during  those 
busy  years  ?  Like  myself,  he  moved  so  quietly  through 


182  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND  NOW. 

his  round  of  professional  duties,  as  to  attract  little  at 
tention.  But  he  had  been  growing  in  all  this  time — 
growing  in  mental  stature  ;  and  growing  in  the  confi 
dence  of  all  just  men.  Judge  Bigelow's  interest  in 
the  mills,  and  in  the  new  Bank,  drew  his  attention  so 
much  away  from  his  law  cases,  that  clients  began  to 
grow  dissatisfied,  and  this  threw  a  great  deal  of  excel 
lent  business  into  the  hands  of  Wallingford,  who,  if 
not  always  successful  in  his  cases,  so  managed  them  as 
to  retain  the  confidence  and  good  will  of  all  who  em 
ployed  him.  He  got  the  character  in  our  town  of  a 
safe  adviser.  If  a  man  had  a  difficulty  with  a  neigh 
bor,  and  talked  of  going  to  law  with  him,  in  all  pro 
bability  some  one  would  say — 

"Go  to  Mr.  Wallingford ;  he  will  tell  you,  on  the 
spot,  if  there  is  any  chance  for  you  in  Court." 

And  he  bore  this  character  justly.  A  thorn  in  the 
side  he  had  proved  to  the  three  great  mill  owners, 
Judge  Bigelow,  Squire  Floyd,  and  Ralph  Dewey.  The 
two  former  failed  entirely,  in  his  view,  as  to  the  right 
steps  for  discovering  the  heirs  to  the  large  property 
in  their  hands,  all  of  which  had  been  changed  from 
its  original  position  ;  while  the  latter  showed  ill-feeling 
whenever  Wallingford,  as  he  continued  to  do,  at  stated 
intervals,  filed  interrogatories,  and  required  answers  as 
to  the  condition  of  the  trust,  and  the  prospects  of  find 
ing  heirs. 

Ten  years  had  elapsed  since  the  discovery  of  Mr. 
Allen's  will,  and  yet  no  heirs  had  presented  them 
selves.  And  now  Mr.  Wallingford  took  formal  issue 
in  the  case,  and  demanded  the  property  for  his  client, 


AN   HEIR   FOUND.  183 

Mrs.  Montgomery,  who  was  still  living  in  Boston  with 
her  daughter,  in  a  retired  way.  Nearly  one-half  of 
her  income  had  been  cut  off,  and  her  circumstances 
were,  in  consequence,  greatly  reduced.  Her  health 
was  feehle,  having  steadily  declined  since  her  removal 

from  S .  An  occasional  letter  passed  between 

her  and  my  wife ;  and  it  was  in  this  way  that  I  learned 
of  her  health  and  condition.  How  free  was  all  she 
wrote  from  repining  or  despondency — how  full  of 
Christian  faith,  hope,  and  patience !  You  could  not 
read  one  of  her  letters  without  growing  stronger  for 
the  right — without  seeing  the  world  as  through  a  re 
versed  telescope. 

A  time  was  fixed  for  hearing  the  case,  which,  now 
that  it  assumed  this  important  shape,  excited  great  in 
terest  among  the  people  of  S .  When  the  mat 
ter  came  fairly  into  court,  Mr.  Wallingford  presented 
his  clearly  arranged  documentary  evidence,  in  proof 
of  Mrs.  Montgomery's  identity  as  the  sister  of  Captain 
Allen,  and  claimed  the  property  as  hers.  He  covered, 
in  anticipation,  every  possible  ground  of  objection: 
bringing  forward,  at  the  same  time,  such  an  array  of 
precedents  and  decisions  bearing  upon  the  case,  that 
it  was  clear  to  every  one  on  which  side  the  decision 
would  lie. 

At  this  important  juncture  a  letter,  post-marked  in 
New  York  on  the  day  before,  was  offered  in  court,  and 
a  demand,  based  on  its  contents,  made  for  a  stay  of 
proceedings.  It  came  from  the  Spanish  Consul,  and 
was  addressed  to  Abel  Bigelow  and  John  Floyd,  exe 
cutors  of  the  late  Captain  Allen,  and  notified  them 


184  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 

that  he  had  just  received  letters  from  San  Juan  De 
Porto  Rico,  containing  information  as  to  the  existence 
of  an  heir  to  the  estate  in  the  person  of  a  boy  named 
Leon  Garcia,  nephew  to  the  late  Mrs.  Allen.  The 
case  was  immediately  laid  over  until  the  next  term  of 
court. 

In  the  meantime,  steps  were  promptly  taken  to  as 
certain  the  truth  of  this  assumption.  An  agent  was 
sent  out  to  the  island  of  Porto  Rico,  who  brought  back 
all  the  proofs  needed  to  establish  the  claim,  and  also 
the  lad  himself,  who  was  represented  to  be  in  his  four 
teenth  year.  He  was  a  coarse,  wicked-looking  boy, 
who,  it  was  plain,  had  not  yet  fully  awakened  to  a 
realizing  sense  of  the  good  fortune  that  awaited  him. 

A  resolute  opposition  was  made  by  Wallingford,  but 
all  the  evidence  adduced  to  prove  Leon  Garcia's  rela 
tionship  to  Mrs.  Allen  was  too  clear,  and  so  the  court 
dismissed  the  case,  and  appointed  Ralph  Dewey  as 
guardian  to  the  boy,  who  was  immediately  placed  at 
school  in  a  neighboring  town. 

So  ended  this  long  season  of  suspense.  Immedi 
ately  on  the  decision  of  the  case,  Wallingford  went  to 
Boston  to  see  Mrs.  Montgomery,  and  remained  absent 
nearly  a  week.  I  saw  him  soon  after  his  return. 

"  How  did  she  bear  this  final  dashing  of  her  hopes 
to  the  earth?"  I  asked. 

"  As  any  one  who  knew  her  well  might  have  ex 
pected,"  he  answered,  with  so  little  apparent  feeling 
that  I  thought  him  indifferent. 

"As  a  Christian  philosopher,"  said  I. 

"You  make  use  of  exactly  the  right  words,"  he  re- 


CHRISTIAN  PHILOSOPHY.  185 

marked.  "  Yes,  as  a  Christian  philosopher.  As  one 
who  thinks  and  reasons  as  well  as  feels.  I  have  seen 
a  great  many  so-called  religious  people  in  my  time. 
People  who  had  much  to  say  ahout  their  spiritual  ex 
periences  and  hopes  of  heaven.  But  never  one  who 
so  made  obedience  to  the  strict  law  of  right,  in  all  its 
plain,  common-sense  interpretations,  a  matter  of  com 
mon  duty.  I  do  not  believe  that  for  anything  this 
world  could  offer  her,  Mrs.  Montgomery  would  swe*rve 
a  hair's  breadth  from  justice.  I  have  been  in  the  po 
sition  to  see  her  tempted;  have,  myself,  been  the 
tempter  over  and  over  again  during  the  ten  years  in 
which  I  represented  her  claims  to  the  Allen  estate ; 
but  her  principles  were  immovable  as  the  hills.  Once, 
I  shall  never  forget  the  incident — I  pressed  her  to 
adopt  a  certain  course  of  procedure,  involving  a  law 
quibble,  in  order  to  get  possession  of  the  property. 
She  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  or  two,  with  a  flushing 
face.  Then  her  countenance  grew  serene,  almost,  hea 
venly,  and  she  gave  me  this  memorable  reply — 'Mr. 
Wallingford,  I  have  a  richer  estate  than  this  in  ex 
pectancy,  and  cannot  mar  the  title.'  And  she  has  not 
marred  it,  Doctor." 

"  How  did  her  daughter  receive  the  news  ?"  I  in 
quired.  I  thought  he  turned  his  face  a  little  away,  as 
he  answered. 

"Not  so  well  as  her  mother."  I  knew  his  voice 
was  lower.  "When  I  announced  the  fact  that  the 
claims  of  young  Garcia  had  been  admitted  by  the 
court,  tears  sprung  to  her  eyes,  and  a  shadow  fell 


186  TWENTY   YEARS  AGO,   AND   NOW. 

upon  her  countenance  such  as  I  have  never  seen  there 
before." 

"  She  is  younger  and  less  disciplined,"  said  I. 

"Few  at  her  age,"  he  answered,  "are  so  well  dis 
ciplined." 

"  Will  they  still  remain  in  Boston  ?"    I  asked. 

"  Yes,  for  the  present,"  he  answered,  and  we  parted. 
A  few  months  after  this,  my  wife  said  to  me  one  day, 

r<  Did  you  hear  that  Mr.  Wallingford  had  bought 
the  pretty  little  cottage  on  Cedar  Lane,  where  Jacob 
Homer  lived?" 

"Is  that  true?" 

"It  is  said  so.  In  fact,  I  heard  it  from  Jane  Ho 
mer,  and  that  is  pretty  good  authority." 

"  Is  he  going  to  live  there  with  his  mother?" 

"  Jane  did  not  know.  Her  husband  went  behind 
hand  the  year  he  built  the  cottage,  and  never  was  able 
to  get  up  even  with  the  world.  So  they  determined 
to  sell  their  place,  pay  off  their  debts,  and  find  con 
tentment  in  a  rented  house.  Mr,  Homer  said  some 
thing  to  Mr.  Wallingford  on  the  subject,  and  he  offered 
to  buy  the  property  at  a  fair  price." 

A  few  days  afterwards,  in  passing  along  Cedar  Lane, 
I  noticed  a  carpenter  at  work  in  the  pretty  cottage 
above  referred  to ;  and  also  a  gardener  who  was  trim 
ming  the  shrubbery. 

"  Good  morning,  William,"  I  spoke  to  the  gardener 
with  whom  I  was  well  acquainted.  "  This  is  a  nice 
cozy  place." 

"Indeed  and  it  is,  Doctor.  Mr.  Homer  took  great 
pride  in  it." 


SYMPTOMS   OF  MATKIMONY.  187 

"And  showed  much  taste  in  gardening." 

"You  may  well  say  that,  Doctor.  There  isn't  a 
finer  shrubbery  to  any  garden  in  S ." 

"  Is  Mr.  Wallingford  going  to  live  here,  or  does  he 
intend  renting  the  cottage  ?" 

"  That's  more  than  I  can  answer,  Doctor.  Mr. 
Wallingford  isn't  the  man,  you  know,  to  talk  with 
everybody  about  his  affairs." 

"  True  enough,  William,"  said  I  smiling,  and  passed 
on. 

"  Did  you  know,"  said  my  wife,  a  few  weeks  later, 
"  that  Mr.  Wallingford  was  furnishing  the  cottage  on 
Cedar  Lane  ?" 

"Ah!  Is  that  so?" 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Dean  told  me  that  Jones  the  cabinet 
maker  had  the  order,  which  was  completed,  and  that 
the  furniture  was  now  going  in.  Everything,  she  says, 
is  plain  and  neat,  but  good." 

"Why,  what  can  this  mean,  Constance?  Is  our 
young  friend  about  to  marry  ?" 

"  It  has  a  look  that  way,  I  fancy." 

"  But  who  is  the  bride  to  be  ?"     I  asked. 

"Mrs.  Dean  thinks  it  is  Florence  Williams." 

"  A  fine  girl ;  but  hardly  worthy  of  Henry  Walling 
ford.  Besides,  he  is  ten  years  her  senior,"  said  I. 

"What  is  the  difference  in  our  ages,  dear?"  Con 
stance  turned  her  fresh  young  face  to  mine — fresh 
and  young  still,  though  more  than  thirty-five  years 
had  thrown  across  it  their  lights  and  shadows,  and  laid 
her  head  fondly  against  my  breast. 


188  TWENTY  YEARS^AGO,    AND   NOW. 

I  kissed  her  tenderly,  and  she  answered  her  own 
question, 

"  Ten  years;  and  you  are  not  so  much  my  senior. 
I  do  not  see  any  force  in  that  objection.  Still  if  I 
had  been  commissioned  to  select  a  wife  for  Mr.  Wal- 
lingford,  I  would  not  have  chosen  Florence  Williams." 

"  Her  father  is  well  off,  and  growing  richer  every 
day."  , 

"Worth  taking  into  the  account,  I  suppose,  as  one 
of  the  reasons  in  favor  of  the  choice,"  said  my  wife. 
"  But  I  hardly  think  Wallingford  is  the  man  to  let 
that  consideration  have  much  influence." 

There  was  no  mistake  about  the  matter  of  furnish 
ing  Ivy  Cottage,  as  the  place  was  called.  I  saw  car 
pets  going  in  on  the  very  next  day.  All  the  shrub 
bery  had  been  trimmed,  the  grounds  cleared  up  and 
put  in  order,  and  many  choice  flowers  planted  in  bor 
ders  already  rich  in  floral  treasures. 

Curiosity  now  began  to  flutter  its  wings,  lift  up  its 
head,  and  look  around  sharply.  Many  arrows  had 
taken  their  flight  towards  the  heart  of  our  young  bach 
elor  lawyer,  but,  until  now,  there  had  been  no  evidence 
of  a  wound.  What  fair  maiden  had  conquered  at  last  ? 
I  met  him  not  long  after,  walking  in  the  street  with 
Florence  Williams.  She  looked  smiling  and  happy ; 
and  his  face  was  brighter  than  I  had  ever  seen  it. 
This  confirmed  to  me  the  rumor. 

Mrs.  Wallingford  was  not  to  be  approached  on  the 
subject.  If  she  knew  of  an  intended  marriage,  sn*e 
feigned  ignorance  ;  and  affected  not  to  understand  the 
hints,  questions,  and  surmises  of  curious  neighbors. 


THE   HAPPY   MARRIAGE.  189 

A  week  or  two  later,  and  I  missed  Wallingford  from 
his  office.  The  lad  in  attendance  said  that  he  was 
away  from  the  town,  but  would  return  in  a  few  days. 

"  I  have  a  surprise  for  you,"  said  my  wife  on  that 
very  afternoon.  She  had  a  letter  in  her  hand  just  re 
ceived  by  post.  Her  whole  face  was  radiant  with 
pleasure.  Drawing  a  card  from  the  envelope,  she  held 
it  before  my  eyes.  I  read  the  names  of  HENRY  WAL 
LINGFORD  and  BLANCHE  MONTGOMERY,  and  the  words, 
"  At  home  Wednesday  evening,  June  15th.  Ivy  Cot 
tage." 

"  Bravo  !"  I  exclaimed,  as  soon  as  a  momentary  be 
wilderment  passed,  showing  more  than  my  wonted  en 
thusiasm.  "  The  best  match  since  Hymen  linked  our 
fates  together,  Constance." 

"  May  it  prove  as  happy  a  one  !"  my  wife  answered, 
with  a  glance  of  tenderness. 

"  It  will,  Constance — it  will.  That  is  a  marriage 
after  my  own  heart ;  one  that  I  have,  now  and  then, 
dimly  foreshadowed  in  imagination,  but  never  thought 
to  see." 

"It  is  over  five  years  since  we  saw  Blanche,"  re 
marked  Constance.  "  I  wonder  how  she  looks  !  If 
life's  sunshine  and  rain  have  produced  a  rich  harvest 
in  her  soul,  or  only  abraded  the  surface,  and  marred 
the  sweet  beauty  that  captivated  us  of  old  !  I  wonder 
how  she  has  borne  the  shadowing  of  earthly  prospects 
— the  change  from  luxurious  surroundings  !" 

"  They  have  not  dimmed  the  virgin  gold ;  you  may 
be  sure  of  that,  Constance,"  was  my  reply  to  this. 

"  At  home,  Wednesday  evening,  June  fifteenth." 


190  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,    AND   NOW. 

And  this  was  Tuesday.  Only  a  single  day  intervened. 
And  yet  it  seemed  like  a  week  in  anticipation,  so  eager 
did  we  grow  for  the  promised  re-union  with  friends 
whose  memory  was  in  our  hearts  as  the  sound  of  pleas 
ant  music. 

It  was  eight  o'clock,  on  "Wednesday  evening,  when 
we  entered  Ivy  Cottage,  our  hearts  beating  with 
quickened  strokes  under  their  burden  of  pleasant  an 
ticipation.  What  a  queenly  woman  stood  revealed  to 
us,  as  we  entered  the  little  parlor !  I  would  hardly 
have  known  her  as  the  almost  shrinking  girl  from  whom 
we  parted  not  many  years  before.  How  wonderfully 
she  had  developed !  Figure,  face,  air,  manner,  atti 
tude—all  showed  the  woman  of  heart,  mind,  and  pur 
pose.  Yet,  nothing  struck  you  as  masculine ;  but 
rather  as  exquisitely  feminine.  It  took  but  one  glance 
at  her  serene  face,  to  solve  the  query  as  to  whether 
there  had  been  a  free  gift  of  heart  as  well  as  hand. 
My  eyes  turned  next  to  the  pale,  thin  face  of  Mrs. 
Montgomery,  who  sat,  or  half  reclined,  in  a  large 
cushioned  chair.  She  was  looking  at  her  daughter. 
That  expression  of  blended  love  and  pride,  will  it  ever 
cease  to  be  a  sweet  picture  in  my  memory  ?  All  was 
right — I  saw  that  in  the  first  instant  of  time. 

The  reception  was  not  a  formal  one.  There  was  no 
display  of  orange  blossoms,  airy  veils,  and  glittering 
jewels — but  a  simple  welcoming  of  a  few  old  friends, 
who  had  come  to  heart-congratulations.  It  was  the 
happiest  bridal  reception — always  excepting  the  one 
in  which  my  Constance  wore  the  orange  wreath — that 
I  had  ever  seen.  Do  you  inquire  of  Wallingford,  as 


ALL   RIGHT.  191 

to  how  he  looked  and  seemed  ?  Worthy  of  the  splen 
did  woman  who  stood  by  his  side  and  leaned  towards 
him  with  such  a  sweet  assurance.  How  beautiful  it 
was  to  see  the  proud  look  with  which  she  turned  her 
eyes  upon  him,  whenever  he  spoke  !  It  was  plain,  that 
to  her,  his  words  had  deeper  meanings  in  them,  than 
came  to  other  ears. 

"It  is  all  right,  I  see."  I  had  drawn  a  chair  close 
to  the  one  in  which  Mrs.  Montgomery  sat,  and  was 
holding  in  mine  the  thin,  almost  shadowy  hand  which 
she  had  extended. 

"Yes,  it  is  all  right,  Doctor,"  she  answered,  as  a 
smile  lit  up  her  pale  face.  "All  right,  and  I  am 
numbered  among  the  happiest  of  mothers.  He  is  not 
titled,  nor  rich,  nor  noble  in  the  vulgar  sense — but 
titled,  and  rich,  and  noble  as  God  gives  rank  and 
wealth.  I  came  to  this  land  of  promise  ten  years  ago, 
in  search  of  an  estate  for  my  child ;  and  I  have  found  it, 
at  last.  Ah,  Doctor" — and  she  glanced  upwards  as  she 
spoke — "  His  ways  are  not  as  our  ways.  And  if  we  will 
only  trust  in  Him,  He  will  bring  such  things  to  pass, 
as  never  entered  into  the  imagination  of  our  hearts. 
I  did  not  dream  of  this  man  as  the  husband  of  my 
child,  when  I  gave  my  business  into  his  care.  The 
remote  suggestion  of  such  a  thing  would  have  offended 
me ;  for  my  heart  was  full  of  false  pride,  though  I 
knew  it  not.  But  there  was  a  destiny  for  Blanche, 
foreshadowed  for  me  then,  but  not  seen." 

"It  is  the  quality  of  the  man,"  I  said,  "that  de 
termines  the  quality  of  the  marriage.  She  who  weds 
best,  weds  the  truest  man.  The  rank  and  wealth  are 


192  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,  AND  NOW. 

of  the  last  consideration.  To  make  them  first,  is  the 
blindest  folly  of  the  blindest." 

"Ah,  if  this  were  but  rightly  understood" — said 
Mrs.  Montgomery — "  what  new  lives  would  people  be 
gin  to  live  in  the  world  !  How  the  shadows  that 
dwell  among  so  many  households — even  those  of  the 
fairest  external  seeming — would  begin  to  lift  them 
selves  upward  and  roll  away,  letting  in  the  sunlight 
and  filling  the  chambers,  of  discord  with  heavenly 
music !  I  have  sometimes  thought,  that  more  than 
half  the  misery  which  curses  the  world  springs  from 
discordant  marriages." 

"The  estimate  is  low,"  I  answered.  "If  you  had 
said  two-thirds,  you  would  have  been,  perhaps,  nearer 
the  truth." 

Blanche  crossed  the  room,  and  came  and  stood  by 
her  mother's  chair,  looking  down  into  her  face  with  a 
loving  smile. 

"  I  am  afraid  the  journey  has  been  too  much  for 
you,"  she  said,  with  a  shadow  of  concern  in  her  face. 
"You  look  paler  than  usual." 

"Paler,  because  a  little  fatigued,  dear.  But  a 
night's  rest  will  bring  me  up  even  again,"  Mrs.  Mont 
gomery  replied  cheerfully. 

"How  is  the  pain  in  your  side,  now?"  asked 
Blanche,  still  with  a  look  of  concern. 

"Easier.     I  scarcely  notice  it  now." 

"Blanche  is  over  anxious  about  my  health,  dear 
girl !"  said  Mrs.  Montgomery,  as  the  bride  moved  to 
another  part  of  the  room.  She  thinks  me  failing 
rapidly.  And,  without  doubt,  the  foundations  of  this 


* 

DEATH   NO   TERROR.  193 

earthly  house  are  giving  way ;  but  I  trust,  that  ere  it 
fall  into  ruin,  a  house  not  made  with  hands,  eternal, 
in  the  heavens,  will  be  ready  for  my  reception." 

There  was  no  depressing  solemnity  in  her  tones,  as 
she  thus  alluded  to  that  event  which  comes  to  all ;  but 
a  smiling  cheerfulness  of  manner  that  was  contagious. 

"  You  think  of  death  as  a  Christian,"  said  I. 

"And  how  else  should  I  think  of  it?"  she  replied. 
"  Can  I  not  trust  Him  in  whom  I  have  believed  ?  What 
is  it  more  than  passing  from  a  lower  to  a  higher  state 
of  life — from  the  natural  to  the  spiritual  world? 
When  the  hour  comes,  I  will  lay  me  down  in  peace 
and  sleep." 

She  remained  silent  for  some  moments,  her  thoughts 
apparently  indrawn.  The  brief,  closing  sentence  was 
spoken  as  if  she  were  lapsing  into  reverie.  I  thought 
the  subject  hardly  in  place  for  a  wedding  occasion, 
and  was  about  starting  another  theme,  when  she  said — 

"  Do  you  not  think,  Doctor,  that  this  dread  of  dying, 
which  haunts  most  people  like  a  fearful  spectre — the 
good  as  well  as  the  bad — is  a  very  foolish  thing? 
We  are  taught,  from  childhood,  to  look  forward  to 
death  as  the  greatest  of  all  calamities  ;  as  a  change  at 
tended  by  indefinable  terrors.  Teachers  and  preach 
ers  ring  in  our  ears  the  same  dread  chimes,  thrilling 
the  strongest  nerves  and  appalling  the  stoutest  hearts. 
Death  is  pictured  to  us  as  a  grim  monster ;  and  we 
shudder  as  we  look  at  the  ghastly  apparition.  Now, 
all  this  comes  from  what  is  false.  Death  is  not  the 
crowning  evil  of  our  lives ;  but  the  door  through  which 
we  pass,  tranquilly,  into  that  eternal  world?  which  i3 
13 


194  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

our  destined  home.  I  hold  in  my  thought  a  different 
picture  of  Death  from  that  which  affrighted  me  in 
childhood.  The  form  is  one  of  angelic  beauty,  and 
the  countenance  full  of  love.  I  know,  that  when  I 
pass  along  the  dark  and  narrow  way  that  leads  from 
this  outer  world  of  nature,  to  the  inner  world  from 
which  it  has  existence,  that  my  hand  will  rest  firmly 
in  that  of  an  angel,  commissioned  of  God  to  guide  my 
peaceful  footsteps.  Is  not  that  a  better  faith?" 

"Yes,  a  better  and  a  truer,"  said  I. 

"It  is  not  the  death  passage  that  we  need  fear. 
That  has  in  it  no  intrinsic  evil.  It  is  the  sleep  of 
mortality,  and  the  rest  is  sweet  to  all.  If  we  give 
place  to  fear,  let  it  be  for  that  state  beyond  the  bourne, 
which  will  be  unhappy  in  'the  degree  that  we  are  lovers 
of  self  and  the  world — that  is,  lovers  of  evil  instead  of 
good.  As  the  tree  falls,  so  it  lies,  Doctor.  As  our 
quality  is  at  death,  so  will  it  remain  to  all  eternity. 
Here  is  the  just  occasion  for  dread." 

She  would  have  kept  on,  but  her  attention  was 
drawn  away  by  the  remark  of  a  lady  who  came  up  at 
the  moment.  I  left  her  side  and  passed  to  another 
part  of  the  room ;  but  her  words,  tone,  and  impressive 
manner  remained  with  me.  I  turned  my  eyes  often 
during  the  evening  upon  her  pale,  pure  face,  which 
seemed  like  a  transparent  veil  through  which  the  spirit 
half  revealed  itself.  How  greatly  she  had  changed  in 
five  years  !  There  had  been  trial  and  discipline ;  and 
she  had  come  up  from  them  purer  for  the  ordeal.  The 
flesh  had  failed ;  but  the  spirit  had  taken  on  strength 
and  beauty. 


DEATH   OF   MRS.    MONTGOMERY.  195 

"  How  did  Mrs.  Montgomery  impress  you  ?"  said 
I  to  my  wife,  as  we  sat  down  together  on  our  return 
home. 

"As  one  ready  to  be  translated,"  she  answered. 
"  I  was  at  a  loss  to  determine  which  was  the  most  beau 
tiful,  she  or  Blanche." 

"  You  cannot  make  a  comparison  between  them  as 
to  beauty,"  I  remarked. 

"  Not  as  to  beauty  in  the  same  degree.  The  beauty 
of  Blanche  was  queenly ;  that  of  her  mother  angelic. 
All  things  lovely  in  nature  were  collated,  and  ex 
pressed  themselves  in  the  younger  as  she  stood  blush 
ing  in  the  ripeness  of  her  charms ;  while  all  tilings 
lovely  in  the  soul  beamed  forth  from  the  countenance 
of  the  elder.  And  so,  as  I  have  said,  I  was  at  a  loss  to 
determine  which  was  most  beautiful." 

I  was  just  rising  from  my  early  breakfast  on  the 
next  morning  when  I  received  a  hurried  message  from 
Ivy  Cottage.  The  angel  of  Death  had  been  there. 
Tenderly  and  lovingly  had  he  taken  the  hand  of  Mrs. 
Montgomery,  and  led  her  through  the  gate  that  opens 
into  the  land  of  immortals.  She  received  her  daugh 
ter's  kiss  at  eleven  o'clock,  held  her  for  some  moments, 
gazing  into  her  face,  and  then  said — "  Good-night,  my 
precious  one !  Good-night,  and  God  bless  you !"  At 
seven  in  the  morning  she  was  found  lying  in  bed  with 
a  smile  on  her  face,  but  cold  and  lifeless  as  marble ! 
There  had  been  no  strife  with  the  heavenly  messenger. 


196  TWENTY  TEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

No ; — there  had  been  no  strife  with  the  heavenly 
messenger.  As  a  child  falls  asleep  in  its  mother's 
arms,  so  fell  Mrs.  Montgomery  asleep  in  the  arms  of 
an  angel — tranquil,  peaceful,  happy.  I  say  happy — 
for  in  lapsing  away  into  that  mortal  sleep,  of  which 
our  natural  sleep  is  but  an  image,  shall  the  world- 
weary  who  have  in  trial  and  suffering  grown  heavenly 
minded,  sink  into  unconsciousness  with  less  of  tranquil 
delight  than  the  babe  pillowed  against  its  mother's 
bosom?  I  think  not. 

As  I  gazed  upon  her  dead  face,  where  the  parting 
soul  had  left  its  sign  of  peace,  I  prayed  that,  when  I 
passed  from  my  labors,  there  might  be  as  few  stains 
of  earth  upon  my  garments. 

"  Blessed  are  the  dead  who  die  in  the  Lord,  Yea, 
saith  the  Spirit,  for  they  rest  from  their  labors,  and 
their  works  do  follow  them." 

I  found  myself  repeating  these  holy  words,  as  I 
stood  looking  at  the  white,  shrunken  features  of  the 
departed. 

It  was  not  until  the  next  day  that  I  saw  Blanche. 
But  Constance  was  with  her  immediately  after  the  sad 
news  jarred  upon  her  sympathizing  heart. 


CALM  INTERVIEW.  197 

"  How  did  you  leave  her?"  was  my  anxious  query, 
on  meeting  my  wife  at  home. 

"  Calm,"  was  the  brief  answer. 

How  much  the  word  included ! 

"  Did  you  talk  with  her  ?" 

"Not  a  great  deal;  she  did  not  seem  inclined  to 
talk,  like  some  who  seek  relief  through  expression. 
I  found  her  alone  in  the  room  next  to  the  one  in  which 
the  body  of  her  mother  was  lying.  She  was  sitting 
by  a  table,  with  one  hand  pressed  over  her  eyes,  as  I 
entered.  '  Oh,  my  friend  !  my  dear  friend  !'  she  said, 
in  a  tone  of  grief,  rising  and  coming  a  step  or  two  to 
meet  me.  I  drew  my  arms  around  her,  and  she  laid 
her  head  against  me  and  sobbed  three  or  four  times, 
while  the  tears  ran  down  and  dropped  upon  the  floor. 
1  It  is  well  with  her  !'  I  said. 

"  'Oh,  yes,  my  friend,  it  is  well  with  her,'  she  an 
swered,  mournfully,  '  well  with  her,  but  not  with  me. 
How  shall  I  walk  onward  in  life's  difficult  ways,  with 
out  my  mother's  arm  to  lean  upon  ?  My  steps  already 
hesitate/ 

"  'You  have  another  arm  to  lean  upon,'  I  ventured 
to  suggest. 

"  'Yes,  a  strong  arm  upon  which  I  can  lean  in  un 
faltering  trust.  In  this  God  has  been  good  to  me. 
But  my  wise,  patient  mother — how  shall  I  live  with 
out  her?' 

"  '  She  is  only  removed  from  you  as  to  bodily  pre 
sence,'  said  J.  'Love  conjoins  your  souls  as  inti 
mately  as  ever.' 

"  'Ah,  yes,  I  know  this  must  be.     Too  many  times 


198  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND   NOW. 

have  I  heard  that  comforting  truth  from  her  lips  ever 
to  forget  it.  But  while  we  are  in  the  body,  the  mind 
will  not  rest  satisfied  with  any  thing  less  than  bodily 
presence.' 

"  I  did  not  press  the  point,  for  I  knew  that  in  all 
sorrow  the  heart  is  its  own  best  comforter,  and  gathers 
for  itself  themes  of  consolation  that  even  the  nearest 
friend  would  fail  to  suggest.  We  went  in  together  to 
look  at  the  frail  tabernacle  from  which  the  pure  spirit 
of  her  mother  had  departed  forever !  How  sweetly 
the  smile  left  upon  the  lips  in  the  last  kiss  of  parting, 
lingered  there  still,  fixed  in  human  marble  with  more 
than  a  sculptor's  art !  There  was  no  passionate  weep 
ing,  as  we  stood  by  the  lifeless  clay.  Very  calm  and 
silent  she  was ;  but  oh,  what  a  look  of  intense  love 
went  out  from  her  sad  eyes !  Not  despairing  but  hope 
ful  love.  The  curtain  of  death  hid  from  her  no  laud 
of  shadows  and  mystery;  but  a  world  of  spiritual 
realities.  Her  mother  had  not  gone  shrinking  and 
trembling  into  regions  of  darkness  and  doubt ;  but  in 
the  blessed  assurance  of  a  peaceful  reception  in  the 
house  of  her  friends. 

"How  a  true  faith,"  said  I,  strongly  impressed  by 
the  images  which  were  presented  to  my  mind,  "  strips 
from  death  its  old  terrors  !  When  the  Apostle  ex 
claimed,  '  Oh,  grave,  where  is  thy  victory?  oh,  death, 
where  is  thy  sting?'  his  mind  looked  deeper  into  the 
mystery  of  dying,  and  saw  farther  into  the  world  be 
yond,  than  do  our  modern  Christians,  who  frighten  us 
with  images  of  terror.  f  I  will  lay  me  down  in  peace 
and  sleep,'  when  the  time  of  my  departure  comes, 


PURE   RELIGION.  199 

should  be  the  heart-language  of  every  one  who  takes 
upon  himself  the  name  of  Him  who  said,  *  In  my  Fa 
ther's  house  are  many  mansions.  I  go  to  prepare  a 
place  for  you,  that  where  I  am,  ye  may  be  also.' " 

"  Since  I  knew  Mrs.  Montgomery,  and  felt  the 
sphere  of  her  quality,"  said  Constance,  "  my  percep 
tions  of  life  and  duty  here,  and  their  connection  with 
life  and  happiness  hereafter,  have  been  elevated  to  a 
higher  region.  I  see  no  longer  as  in  a  glass  darkly, 
but  in  the  light  of  reason,  made  clear  by  the  more  in 
terior  light  of  Revelation." 

"And  the  same  is  true  with  me,"  I  replied.  "We 
may  well  say  that  it  was  good  to  have  known  her. 
She  was  so  true,  so  just,  so  unconscious  of  self,  that 
truth,  justice,  and  unselfishness  were  always  lovelier 
in  your  eyes  for  having  seen  them  illustrated  in  her 
person.  And  there  was  no  pious  cant  about  her.  No 
parade  of  her  unworthiness ;  no  solemn  aspects,  nor 
obtrusive  writings  of  bitter  things  against  herself.  But 
always  an  effort  to  repress  what  was  evil  in  her  nature ; 
and  a  state  of  quiet,  religious  trust,  which  said,  '  I 
know  in  whom  I  have  believed.' ' 

"Ah,"  said  Constance,  "if  there  was  only  more  of 
such  religion  in  the  world  !" 

"  It  would  be  a  happier  world  than  it  is,"  I  answered. 

"  By  the  impress  of  a  life  like  hers,  what  lasting  good 
is  done  !"  said  my  wife.  "  Such  are  the  salt  of  the 
earth.  Cities  set  upon  hills.  Lights  in  candlesticks. 
They  live  not  in  vain  !" 

I  did  not  see  Blanche  until  the  day  of  burial.  Her 
beautiful  face  was  calm,  but  very  pale.  It  bore  strong- 


200  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

ly  the  impress  of  sorrow,  but  not  of  that  hopeless 
sorrow  which  we  so  often  see  on  these  mournful  occasions, 
It  was  very  plain  that  her  thoughts  were  not  lingering 
around  the  shrouded  and  coffined  form  of  what  was 
once  her  mother's  body,  but  were  following  her  into 
the  world  beyond  our  mortal  vision,  as  we  follow  a  dear 
friend  who  has  gone  from  us  on  a  long  journey. 

And  thus  it  was  that  Blanche  Montgomery  entered 
upon  her  new  life.  Death's  shadow  fell  upon  the 
torch  of  Hymen.  There  was  a  rain  of  grief  just  as 
the  sun  of  love  poured  forth  his  brightest  beams,  and 
the  bow  which  spanned  the  horizon  gave,  in  that  hour 
of  grief,  sweet  promise  for  the  future. 

These  exciting  events  in  the  experience  of  our  young 
friends  had  come  upon  us  so  suddenly,  that  our  minds 
were  half  bewildered.  A  few  weeks  served,  however, 
to  bring  all  things  into  a  right  adjustment  with  our 
own  daily  life  and  thought,  and  Ivy  Cottage  became 
one  of  the  places  that  grew  dearer  to  us  for  the  ac 
cumulating  memories  of  pleasant  hours  spent  there 
with  true-hearted  ones  who  were  living  for  something 
more  than  the  unreal  things  of  this  world. 

How  many  times  was  the  life  that  beat  so  feverishly 
in  the  Allen  House,  and  that  which  moved  to  such  even 
pulsings  in  Ivy  Cottage,  contrasted  in  my  observation  ! 
Ten  years  of  a  marriage  such  as  Delia  Floyd  so  un 
wisely  consummated,-  had  not  served  for  the  develop 
ment  of  her  inner  life  to  any  right  purpose.  She  had 
kept  on  in  the  wrong  way  taken  by  her  feet  in  the 
beginning,  growing  purse  proud,  vain,  ambitious  of 
external  pre-eminence,  worldly-minded,  and  self-indul- 


TROUBLE  AHEAD.  201 

gent.  She  had  four  children,  who  were  given  up 
almost  wholly  to  the  care  of  hirelings.  There  was, 
consequent  upon  neglect,  ignorance,  and  bad  regimen, 
a  great  deal  of  sickness  among  them,  and  I  was  fre 
quently  called  in  to  interpose  my  skill  for  their  relief. 
Poor  little  suffering  ones !  how  often  I  pitied  them  ! 
An  occasional  warning  was  thrown  in,  but  it  was 
scarcely  heeded  by  the  mother,  who  had  put  on 
towards  me  a  reserved  stateliness,  that  precluded  all 
friendly  remonstrance. 

At  least  two  months  of  every  summer  Mrs.  Dewey 
was  absent  from  S ,  intermitting  between  Sara 
toga  and  Newport,  where  she  abandoned  herself  to  all 
the  excitements  of  fashionable  dissipation.  Regularly 
each  year  we  saw  her  name  in  the  New  York  corres 
pondence  of  the  Herald,  as  the  "  fascinating  Mrs. 

D ;"  the  "  charming  wife  of  Mr.  D ;"  or 

in  some  like  style  of  reference.  At  last,  coupled  with 
one  of  these  allusions,  was  an  intimation  that  "  it  might 
be  well  if  some  discreet  friend  would  whisper  in  the 
lady's  ear  that  she  was  a  little  too  intimate  with  men 
of  doubtful  reputation ;  particularly  in  the  absence  of 
her  husband." 

This  paragraph  was  pointed  out  to  me  by  one  of  my 
patients.  I  read  it  with  a  throb  of  pain.  A  little 
while  afterwards  I  passed  Mr.  Floyd  and  Mr.  Dewey 
in  the  street.  They  were  walking  rapidly,  and  con 
versing  in  an  excited  manner.  I  saw  them  take  the 
direction  of  the  depot. 

"  Here  is  trouble  !"  I  said,  sighing  to  myself.  "  Trou 
ble  that  gold  cannot  gild,  nor  the  sparkle  of  diamonds 


202  TWENTY   YEARS   AGO,  AND   NOW. 

hide.  Alas !  alas !  that  a  human  soul,  in  which  was 
so  fair  a  promise,  should  get  so  far  astray  !" 

I  met  Mr.  Floyd  half  an  hour  later.  His  face  was 
pale  and  troubled,  and  his  eyes  upon  the  ground.  He 
did  not  see  me — or  care  to  see  me — and  so  we  passed 
without  recognition. 

Before  night  the  little  warning  sentence,  written  by 
the  Saratoga  correspondent,  was  running  from  lip  to 

lip  all  over  S .  Some  pitied,  some  blamed,  and 

not  a  few  were  glad  in  their  hearts  of  the  disgrace  ; 
for  Mrs.  Dewey  had  so  carried  herself  among  us  as  to 
destroy  all  friendly  feeling. 

There  was  an  expectant  pause  for  several  days. 
Then  it  was  noised  through  the  town  that  Mr.  Dewey 
had  returned,  bringing  his  wife  home  with  him.  I 
met  him  in  the  street  on  the  day  after.  There  was  a 
heavy  cloud  on  his  brow.  Various  rumors  were  afloat. 
One  was — it  came  from  a  person  just  arrived  from  Sa 
ratoga — that  Mr.  Dewey  surprised  his  wife  in  a  moon 
light  walk  with  a  young  man  for  whom  he  had  no  par 
ticular  fancy,  and  under  such  lover-like  relations,  that 
he  toot  the  liberty  of  caning  the  gentleman  on  the 
spot.  Great  excitement  followed.  The  young  man 
resisted — Mrs.  Dewey  screamed  in  terror — people 
flocked  to  the  place — and  mortifying  exposure  fol 
lowed.  This  story  was  in  part  corroborated  by  the 
following  paragraph  in  the  Herald's  Saratoga  corres 
pondence  : 

"  We  had  a  spicy  scene,  a  little  out  of  the  regular 
performance,  last  evening ;  no  less  than  the  caning  of 
a  New  York  sprig  of  fashion,  who  made  himself  rather 


DISGRACEFUL   EXPOSURE.  203 

more  agreeable  to  a  certain  married  lady  who  dashes 
about  here  in  a  queenly  way  than  was  agreeable  to 
her  husband.  The  aftair  was  husiied  up.  This  morn 
ing  I  missed  the  lady  from  her  usual  place  at  the 
breakfast-table.  Later  in  the  day  I  learned  that  her 
husband  had  taken  her  home.  If  he'll  accept  my  ad 
vice,  he  will  keep  her  there." 

"Poor  Mrs.  Floyd  !"  It  was  the  mother's  deep  sor 
row  and  humiliation  that  touched  the  heart  of  my 
Constance  when  this  disgraceful  exposure  reached  her. 
"  She  has  worn  to  me  a  troubled  look  for  this  long 
while,"  she  added.  "  The  handsome  new  house  which 
the  Squire  built,  and  into  which  they  moved  last  year, 
has  not,  with  all  its  elegant  accompaniments,  made 
her  any  more  cheerful  than  she  was  before.  Mrs. 
Dean  told  me  that  her  sister  was  very  much  opposed 
to  leaving  her  old  home ;  but  the  Squire  has  grown 
rich  so  fast  that  he  must  have  everything  in  the  exter 
nal  to  correspond  with  his  improved  circumstances. 
Ah  me  !  If,  with  riches,  troubles  so  deep  must  come, 
give  me  poverty  as  a  blessing." 

A  week  passed,  and  no  one  that  I  happened  to  meet 
knew,  certainly,  whether  Mrs.  Dewey  was  at  home  or 
not.  Then  she  suddenly  made  her  appearance  riding 
about  in  her  stylish  carriage,  and  looking  as  self-as 
sured  as  of  old. 

"That  was  a  strange  story  about  Mrs.  Dewey," 
said  I  to  a  lady  whom  1  was  visiting  professionally. 
I  knew  her  to  be  of  Mrs.  Dewey's  set.  Don't  smile, 
reader ;  we  had  risen  to  the  dignity  of  having  a  fash- 


204  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 

ionable  "set,"  in  S ,  and  Mrs.  Dewey  was  the 

leader. 

The  lady  shrugged  her  shoulders,  drew  up  her  eye 
brows,  and  looked  knowing  and  mysterious.  I  had 
expected  this,  for  I  knew  my  subject  very  well. 

"You  were  at  Saratoga,"  I  added;  "and  must 
know  whether  rumor  has  exaggerated  her  conduct." 

"Well,  Doctor,"  said  the  lady,  dropping  her  voice, 
and  putting  on  the  air  of  one  who  spoke  in  confi 
dence.  "  I  must  say  that  our  friend  was  not  as  discreet 
as  she  might  have  been.  Nothing  wrong — that  is, 
criminal — of  course.  But  the  truth  is,  she  is  too  fond 
of  admiration,  and  encourages  the  attentions  of  young 
men  a  great  deal  more  than  is  discreet  for  any  mar 
ried  woman." 

"  There  was  an  actual  rencontre  between  Mr.  Dewey 
and  a  person  he  thought  too  familiar  with  his  wife  ?" 
said  I. 

"  Oh,  yes.     Why,  it  was  in  the  newspapers  !  " 

"  How  was  it  made  up  between  the  parties  ?  " 

"  It  isn't  made  up  at  all,  I  believe.  There's  been 
some  talk  of  a  duel." 

"A  sad  affair,"  said  I.  "How  could  Mrs.  Dewey 
have  been  so  thoughtless?" 

"  She  isn't  prudent,  by  any  means,"  answered  this 
intimate  friend.  "  I  often  look  at  the  way  she  con 
ducts  herself  at  public  places,  and  wonder  at  her 
folly." 

"Folly,  indeed,  if  her  conduct  strikes  at  the  root 
of  domestic  happiness." 

The  lady  shook  her  head  in  a  quiet,  meaning  way. 


LOVE'S   DESOLATION.  205 

. 

I  waited  for  her  to  put  her  thoughts  into  words,  which 
she  did  in  a  few  moments  after  this  fashion : 

"  There's  not  much  domestic  happiness  to  spoil, 
Doctor,  so  far  as  I  can  see.  I  don't  think  she  cares  a 
farthing  for  her  husband ;  and  he  seems  to  have  his 
mind  so  full  of  grand  business  schemes  as  to  have  no 
place  left  for  the  image  of  his  wife.  At  least,  so  I 
read  him." 

"  How  has  this  matter  affected  their  relation  one  to 
the  other?" 

"  I  have  not  seen  them  together  since  her  return, 
and  therefore  cannot  speak  from  actual  observation," 
she  replied. 

There  was  nothing  very  definite  in  all  this,  yet  it 
revealed  such  an  utter  abandonment  of  life's  best 
hopes— such  a  desolation  of  love's  pleasant  land — 
such  a  dark  future  for  one  who  might  have  been  so 
nobly  blest  in  a  true  marriage  union,  that  I  turned 
from  the  theme  with  a  sad  heart. 


206  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND  NOW. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

ALMOST  daily,  while  the  pleasant  fall  weather  lasted, 
did  I  meet  the  handsome  carriage  of  Mrs.  Dewey ;  but 
I  noticed  that  she  went  less  through  the  town,  and 
oftener  out  into  the  country.  And  I  also  noticed  that 
she  rode  alone  more  frequently  than  she  had  been 
accustomed  to  do.  Formerly,  one  fashionable  friend 
or  another,  who  felt  it  to  be  an  honor  to  sit  in  the  car 
riage  of  Mrs.  Dewey,  was  generally  to  be  seen  in  her 
company  when  she  went  abroad.  Now,  the  cases  were 
exceptional.  I  also  noticed  a  gathering  shade  of 
trouble  on  her  face. 

The  fact  was,  opinion  had  commenced  setting  against 
her.  The  unhappy  affair  at  Saratoga  was  not  allowed 

to  sleep  in  the  public  mind  of  S .  It  was  conned 

over,  magnified,  distorted,  and  added  to,  until  it  as 
sumed  most  discreditable  proportions ;  and  ladies  who 
respected  themselves  began  to  question  whether  it 
was  altogether  reputable  to  be  known  as  her  intimate 
friends.  The  less  scrupulous  felt  the  force  of  example 
as  set  by  these,  and  began  receding  also.  In  a  large 
city,  like  New  York,  the  defection  would  only  have 
been  partial ;  for  there,  one  can  be  included  in  many 
fashionable  circles,  while  only  a  few  of  them  may  be 


CHANGE  FOE  THE  WORSE.         207 

penetrated  by  a  defaming  rumor.    But  in  a  small  town 
like  S ,  the  case  is  different. 

I  was  surprised  when  I  comprehended  the  meaning 
of  this  apparent  isolation  of  herself  by  Mrs.  Dewey, 
and  saw,  in  progress,  the  ban  of  social  ostracism. 
While  I  pitied  the  victim,  I  was  glad  that  we  had  virtue 
enough,  even  among  our  weak-minded  votaries  of 
ftshion,  to  stamp  with  disapproval  the  conduct  of 
«*hich  she  had  been  guilty. 

"  I  saw  Mrs.  Dewey  this  morning,"  said  my  wife, 
one  day,  late  in  November.  "  She  was  in  at  Howard's 
making  some  purchases." 

"  Did  you  speak  to  her  ?  " 

"  Yes,  we  passed  a  few  words.  How  much  she  has 
changed!" 

"For  the  worse?" 

"  Yes.  She  appears  five  years  older  than  she  did 
last  summer,  and  has  such  a  sad,  disappointed  look, 
that  I  could  not  help  pitying  her  from  my  heart." 

"  There  are  few  who  need  your  pity  more,  Con 
stance.  I  think  she  must  be  wretched  almost  beyond 
endurance.  So  young,  and  the  goblet  which  held  the 
wine  of  her  life  broken,  and  all  its  precious  contents 
spilled  in  the  thirsty  sand  at  her  feet.  Every  one 
seems  to  have  receded  from  her." 

"  The  common  sentiment  is  against  her ;  and  yet,  I 
am  of  those  who  never  believed  her  any  thing  worse 
than  indiscreet." 

"  Her  indiscretion  was  in  itself  a  heinous  offence 
against  good  morals,"  said  I ;  "  and  while  she  has  my 


208 

compassion,  I  have  no  wish  to  see  a  different  course  of 
treatment  pursued  towards  her." 

"  I  haven't  much  faith  in  the  soundness  of  this 
common  sentiment  against  her,"  replied  Constance. 
"  There  is  in  it  some  self-righteousness,  a  good  deal  of 
pretended  horror  at  her  conduct,  but  very  little  real 
virtuous  indignation.  It  is  my  opinion  that  eight  out 
of  ten  of  her  old  fashionable  friends  would  be  just  as 
intimate  with  her  as  ever,  though  they  knew  all  about 
the  affair  at  Saratoga,  if  they  only  were  in  the  secret. 
It  is  in  order  to  stand  well  with  the  world  that  they 
lift  their  hands  in  pretended  holy  horror." 

"  We  cannot  expect  people  to  act  from  any  higher 
principles  than  they  possess,"  said  I;  "and  it  is  some 
thing  gained  to  good  morals,  when  even  those  who  are 
corrupt  in  heart  affect  to  be  shocked  at  departures 
from  virtue  in  their  friends." 

"  Yes,  I  can  see  that.  Still,  when  I  look  beneath 
the  surface,  I  feel  that,  so  far  as  the  motives  are  con 
cerned,  a  wrong  has  been  done  ;  and  my  soul  stirs  with 
a  feeling  of  pity  towards  Mrs.  Dewey,  and  indignation 
against  her  heartless  friends.  Do  you  know,  dear, 
that  since  I  met  her  this  morning,  I  have  had  serious 
thoughts  of  calling  upon  her  ?  " 

"You!" 

Constance  gave  me  one  of  her  placid  smiles  in  an 
swer  to  my  surprised  ejaculation. 

"Yes;  why  not?" 

"What  will  people  say?" 

"  I  can  tell  you  what  they  will  not  say,"  she  replied. 

"Well?" 


A   FRIENDLY   CALL.  209 

"  They  will  not  say.,  as  they  do  of  her,  that  of  all 
men,  I  care  least  for  my  husband." 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  their  saying  that;  but — " 

I  was  a  little  bewildered  by  this  unexpected  thought 
on  the  part  of  my  wife,  and  did  not  at  first  see  the 
matter  clear. 

"  She  has  held  herself  very  high,  and  quite  aloof 
from  many  of  her  old  friends,"  Constance  resumed. 
"  While  this  was  the  case,  I  have  not  cared  to  intrude 
upon  her ;  although  she  has  been  kind  and  polite  to 
me  whenever  we  happened  to  meet.  Now,  when  the 
summer  friends  who  courted  her  are  dropping  away 
like  autumn  leaves,  a  true  friend  may  draw  near  and 
help  her  in  the  trial  through  which  she  is  passing." 

"  Right,  Constance  !  right !"  said  I,  warmly.  "  Your 
clearer  eyes  have  gone  down  below  the  surface.  Oh, 
yes ;  call  upon  her,  and  be  her  true  friend,  if  she  will 
permit  you  to  come  near  enough.  There  can  be  no  loss 
to  you ;  there  may  be  great  gain  to  her.  Was  there  any 
thing  in  her  manner  that  encouraged  you  to  approach  ?" 

"  I  think  so.  It  was  this,  no  doubt,  that  stirred  the 
suggestion  in  my  mind." 

Constance  waited  a  day  or  two,  pondering  the  mat 
ter,  and  then  made  a  call  at  the  Allen  House. 

"  How  were  you  received?"  I  asked,  on  meeting  her. 

"  Kindly,"  she  said. 

"But  with  indifference?" 

"  No.  Mrs.  Dewey  was  surprised,  I  thought,  but 
evidently  pleased." 

"  How  long  did  you  stay?" 

"  Only  for  a  short  time." 
14 


210  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND   NOW. 

"What  did  you  talk  about?" 

"  Scarcely  any  thing  heyond  the  common-place 
topics  that  come  up  on  formal  visits.  But  I  pene 
trated  deep  enough  into  her  mind  to  discover  the 
'  aching  void'  there,  which  she  has  been  so  vainly  en 
deavoring  to  fill.  I  do  not  think  she  meant  to  let  me 
see  this  abyss  of  wretchedness ;  but  her  efforts  to  hide 
it  were  in  vain.  Unhappy  one  !  She  has  been  seek 
ing  to  quench  an  immortal  thirst  at  broken  cisterns 
which  can  hold  no  water." 

"  Can  you  do  her  any  good,  Constance?"  I  asked. 

"If  we  would  do  good,  we  must  put  ourselves  in 
the  way,"  she  replied.  "  Nothing  is  gained  by  stand 
ing  afar  off." 

a  Then  you  mean  to  call  upon  her  again  ?" 

"  She  held  my  hand  at  parting,  with  such  an  earn 
est  pressure,  and  looked  at  me  so  kindly  when  she 
said,  '  Your  visit  has  been  very  pleasant,'  that  I  saw 
the  way  plain  before  me." 

"  You  will  wait  until  she  returns  your  call  ?" 

"  I  cannot  say.  It  will  depend  upon  the  way  things 
shape  themselves  in  my  mind.  If  I  can  do  her  good, 
I  shall  not  stand  upon  etiquette." 

As  I  came  in  sight  of  my  modest  little  home  a  few 
days  afterwards,  I  saw  the  stylish  carriage  of  Mrs. 
Dewey  dash  away  from  my  door,  taking  a  direction 
opposite  to  that  by  which  I  was  approaching. 

"  How  are  the  mighty  fallen !"  It  was  hardly  a 
good  spirit  by  whom  this  thought  was  quickened,  for 
I  was  conscious  of  something  like  a  feeling  of  triumph. 
With  an  effort  I  repressed  the  ungenerous  state  of  mind. 


THE   CALL  RETURNED.  211 

"  So  your  call  has  been  returned,"  said  I,  on  entering 
our  sitting  room. 

"Yes.  How  did  you  know?"  Constance  looked 
up,  smiling,  but  curious. 

"  I  saw  Mrs.  Dewey's  carriage  leave  our  door  as  I 
turned  into  the  street.  Did  she  come  in,  or  only  leave 
her  card?" 

"  She  came  in,  and  sat  for  half  an  hour." 

"  And  made  herself  very  agreeable, — was  patroniz 
ing,  and  all  that?" 

"No — nothing  of  the  kind  suggested  by  your  words." 
And  Constance  looked  at  me  reproachfully.  "  She 
was,  on  the  contrary,  quiet,  subdued,  and  womanly.  I 
called  to  see  her,  with  the  manner  of  one  who  had  about 
her  no  consciousness  of  inferiority ;  and  she  returned 
the  call,  without  a  sign  that  I  could  regard  as  offensive." 

"  It  is  well,"  I  answered,  coming  back  into  my  bet 
ter  state.  "  If  true  friends  can  take  the  place  of  false 
friends,  who  left  her  the  moment  a  shadow  fell  upon 
her  good  name,  then  the  occasion  of  blame  may  pave 
the  way  to  life  instead  of  ruin.  There  must  be  re 
mains  of  early  and  better  states  covered  up  and  hid 
den  away  in  her  soul,  but  not  lost :  and  by  means  of 
these  she  may  be  saved — yet,  I  fear,  that  only  through 
deep  suffering  will  the  overlying  accretions  of  folly  be 
broken  away." 

"  She  is  in  the  hands  of  one  to  whom  all  spirits  are 
precious,"  said  Constance,  meekly ;  "  and  if  we  can 
aid  in  His  good  work  of  restoration  and  salvation, 
our  reward  shall  be  great."-  • 

After  the  lapse  of  a  week,  Constance  called  again 


212 

upon  Mrs.  Dewey.  She  found  her  in  a  very  unhappy 
state  of  mind,  and  failed,  almost  entirely,  in  her  efforts 
to  throw  a  few  sunbeams  across  the  shadow  by  which 
she  was  environed.  Her  reception  was  neither  cold 
nor  cordial. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "that  my  visit  was  untimely. 
Some  recent  occurrence  had,  probably,  disturbed  her 
mind  so  deeply,  that  she  was  not  able  to  rise  above  the 
depression  that  followed.  I  noticed  a  bitterness  of 
feeling  about  her  that  was  not  apparent  on  the  occa 
sion  of  my  first  call ;  and  a  hardness  of  manner  and 
sentiment,  that  indicated  a  condition  of  mental  suffer- 
ing  having  its  origin  in  a  sense  of  wrong.  Mr.  Dewey 
passed  through  the  hall,  and  went  out  a  few  minutes 
after  I  entered  the  house,  and  before  his  wife  joined 
me  in  the  parlor.  It  may  have  been  fancy ;  but  I 
thought,  while  I  sat  there  awaiting  her  appearance, 
that  I  heard  angry  words  in  the  room  above.  The 
heavy  tread  of  a  man's  foot  was  there ;  but  the  sound 
ceased  all  at  once — so  did  the  voices.  A  little  while 
afterwards  Mr.  Dewey  came  down  stairs,  and  went 
out,  as  I  have  said.  Some  minutes  passed  before  I 
heard  the  rustle  of  Mrs.  Dewey's  garments.  There 
was  the  air  of  one  disturbed  and  ill  at  ease  about  her, 
when  she  entered ;  and  though  she  made  an  effort  to 
seem  pleased,  all  was  forced  work.  Poor  woman  ! 
The  path  she  selected  to  walk  in  through  the  world 
has  proved  rough  and  thorny,  I  fear,  beyond  any  thing 
dreamed  of  in  her  young  imagination." 


JOSHUA   KLING.  213 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

WEEKS  passed  after  this  second  visit  to  the  Allen 
House,  but  the  call  was  not  returned  by  Mrs.  Dewey. 
We  talked  the  matter  over,  occasionally,  and  concluded 
that,  for  some  reason  best  known  to  herself,  the 
friendly  overtures  of  Constance  were  not  agreeable  to 
the  lady.  She  was  not  often  seen  abroad,  and  when 
she  did  appear,  the  closed  windows  of  her  carriage 
usually  hid  her  face  from  careful  observation. 

Of  late,  Mr.  Dewey  was  away  from  S more 

than  usual,  business  connected  with  the  firm  of  which 
he  was  a  member  requiring  his  frequent  presence  in 
New  York.  He  did  not  remain  absent  over  two  or 
three  days  at  a  time. 

Nearly  opposite  to  where  I  resided  lived  Mr.  Joshua 
Kling,  the  Cashier  of  the  new  Clinton  Bank.  He  and 
Mr.  Dewey  seemed  to  be  on  particularly  friendly 
terms.  Often  I  noticed  the  visits  of  Mr.  Dewey  to 
the  Cashier's  house  after  bank  hours,  and  many  times 
in  paying  evening  calls  would  I  meet  the  two  gentle 
men,  arm  in  arm,  engaged  in  close  conversation. 

It  was  pretty  generally  understood  in  S that 

the  Clinton  Bank  was  in  the  hands  of  parties  in  New 
York,  and  that  a  large  proportion  of  the  discounts 


214  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 

made  were  of  paper  bearing  the  endorsement  of  Floyd, 
Lawson,  Lee,  &  Co.,  which  was  passed  by  the  direc 
tors  as  the  legitimate  business  paper  received  by  that 
house  in  its  extensive  business  operations ;  or  of  paper 
drawn  to  the  order  of  John  Floyd  &  Co.,  given  in  pay 
ment  of  goods  manufactured  at  the  mills  in  S . 

It  was  also  generally  conceded  that  as,  through  their 
partner,  Mr.  Dewey,  this  firm  of  Floyd,  Lawson,  Lee, 
&  Co.,  had  invested  a  large  amount  of  capital  in 

S ,  and  by  their  liberality  and  enterprise  greatly 

benefited  the  town,  they  were  entitled  to  all  the  favors 
it  was  in  the  power  of  the  bank  to  give  ;  more  particu 
larly  as  the  firm  was  one  of  great  wealth — "  solid  as 
gold" — and  the  interests  of  the  stockholders  would, 
therefore,  be  best  served  by  keeping  the  line  of  dis 
count  mainly  in  so  safe  a  channel. 

Now  and  then  a  disappointed  storekeeper,  whose 
small  offerings  were  thrown  out,  would  inveigh  bitterly 
against  the  directors,  calling  hard  names,  and  pro 
phesying  "a  grand  explosion  one  of  these  days;"  but 
these  invectives  and  predictions  hardly  ever  found  a 
repetition  beyond  the  narrow  limits  of  his  place  of 
business. 

And  so  the  splendid  schemes  of  Ralph  Dewey  and 
Company  went  on  prospering,  while  he  grew  daily  in 
self-importance,  and  in  offensive  superciliousness  to 
ward  men  from  whom  he  had  nothing  to  expect.  In 
my  own  case  I  had  little  to  complain  of,  as  my  contact 
with  him  was  generally  professional,  and*  under  cir 
cumstances  that  caused  a  natural  deference  to  my  skill 
as  a  physician. 


MRS.    DEWEY  A  SUFFERER.  215 

Nothing  out  of  the  ordinary  range  of  things  trans 
pired  until  towards  Christmas,  when  my  wife  received 
a  note  from  Mrs.  Dewey,  asking  her  as  a  special  favor 
to  call  at  the  Allen  House.  She  was  there  in  half  an 
hour  after  the  note  came  to  hand. 

I  was  at  home  when  she  returned,  and  saw  the  mo 
ment  I  looked  into  her  face  that  she  had  been  the  wit 
ness  of  something  that  had  moved  her  deeply. 

"Is  anything  wrong  with  Mrs.  Dewey?"  I  asked. 

"Yes."  Her  countenance  took  on  a  more  serious 
aspect. 

"In  what  respect?" 

"  The  story  cannot  be  told  in  a  sentence.  I  received 
a  note  from  her  as  you  are  aware.  Its  earnest  brevity 
forewarned  me  that  the  call  involved  something  of 
serious  import ;  and  I  was  not  mistaken  in  this  conclu 
sion.  On  calling,  and  asking  for  Mrs.  Dewey,  I  no 
ticed  an  air  of  irresolution  about  the  servant.  '  Mrs. 
Dewey  is  not  well,'  she  said,  'and  I  hardly  think  can 
see  company  to-day.' 

"  <  She  is  not  ill,  I  hope  ?'  said  I. 

" '  No,  ma'am ;  not  ill  exactly,  but — '  and  she  hesi 
tated  and  looked  embarrassed. 

"'She  will  see  me,'  I  spoke  confidently.  'Take 
her  my  name,  and  I  will  wait  here  in  the  parlor.' 

"  In  a  few  minutes  the  girl  returned  and  asked  me 
to  walk  up  stairs.  I  followed  her  to  Mrs.  Dewey's 
room.  She  tapped  lightly  on  the  door,  which  was 
opened.  I  passed  in,  and  found  myself  alone  with 
Delia.  She  grasped  my  arm  tightly  as  she  shut  the 
door  and  locked  it,  saying  as  she  did  so,  in  a  voice  so 


216  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,    AND   NOW. 

altered  from  her  usual  tone,  that  it  sounded  strangely 
in  my  ears — 

"  '  Thank  you,  my  friend,  for  coming  so  soon.  I  am 
in  deep  trouble,  and  need  a  counselor  as  well  as  a 
comforter.  I  can  trust  you  for  both.' 

"  I  drew  my  arm  around1  her,  so  that  by  act  I  could 
give  more  than  the  assurance  of  words,  and  walked 
from  the  door  with  her  to  a  lounge  between  the  win 
dows,  where  we  sat  down.  Her  face  had  a  shrunken 
aspect,  like  the  face  of  one  who  had  been  sick ;  and  it 
showed  also  the  marks  of  great  suffering. 

"  '  You  may  trust  me  as  your  own  sister,  Delia,'  said 
I,  *  and  if  in  my  power  to  counsel  or  to  comfort,  both 
will  be  freely  accorded.' 

"I  called  her  Delia,  instead  of  Mrs.  Dewey;  not 
from  design,  but  because  the  old  name  by  which  I  had 
known  her  was  first  on  my  lips. 

"  I  thought  there  was  a  sudden  lifting  of  her  eyes 
as  I  pronounced  this  name.  The  effect,  if  any  fol 
lowed,  was  not  to  repel,  but  to  draw  her  closer. 

"'I  am  standing,'  she  said,  speaking  slowly  and 
solemnly,  '  at  the  edge  of  a  deep  abyss,  my  way  hedged 
up  on  both  sides,  and  enemies  coming  on  behind.  I 
have  not  strength  to  spring  over ;  and  to  fall  is  de 
struction.  In  my  weakness  and  despair,  I  turn  to  you 
for  help.  If  there  is  help  in  any  mortal  arm,  some 
thing  tells  me  it  is  in  yours.' 

"  She  did  not  weep,  nor  show  strong  emotion.  But 
her  face  was  almost  colorless,  and  presented  an  image 
of  woe  sueh  as  never  met  my  eyes,  except  in  pictures. 

"'You  have  heard,  no  doubt,'  she  went  on,  'some 


CONSEQUENCES   OF   ERROR.  217 

of  the  stories  to  my  discredit  which  have  been  circu 
lated  in  S .  That  I  was  gay  and  imprudent  at 

Saratoga,  cannot  be  denied — gay  and  imprudent  as 
are  too  many  fashionable  women,  under  the  exciting 
allurements  of  the  place.  Little  fond  flirtations  with 
gentlemen  made  up  a  part  of  our  pastime  there.  But 
as  for  sin — it  was  not  in  my  thoughts  ! '  She  said  this 
with  an  emphasis  that  assured  me  of  its  truth.  4A 
mere  life  of  fashionable  pleasure  is  a  great  exhauster 
of  resources.  One  tires  of  this  excitement  and  of 
that,  pushing  them  aside,  as  a  child  does  an  old  or 
broken  toy,  to  grasp  after  something  new.  It  is  not 
surprising,  therefore,  that  mere  pleasure-seeking  wo 
men  forget  at  times  the  just  proprieties  of  life,  and, 
before  they  are  aware  of  danger,  find  themselves  in 
very  equivocal  positions.  This  was  simply  my  case. 
Nothing  more — nothing  less.' 

"  She  paused  and  looked  earnestly  into  my  face,  to 
see  if  I  credited  this  assertion. 

"  'I  have  never  believed  any  thing  else,'  said  I. 

"  A  faint,  sad  smile  flitted  across  her  wan  face. 

"'The  consequences  of  this  error  on  my  part/  she 
went  on,  'threaten  to  be  of  the  most  disastrous  kind. 
My  husband  has  ever  since  conducted  himself  towards 
me  as  if  I  were  a  guilty  and  disgraced  thing.  We 
occupy  separate  apartments  ;  and  though  we  sit  toge 
ther  at  the  same  table,  words  rarely  pass  between  us. 
Occasionally  he  comes  home  under  the  influence  of 
wine,  and  then  his  abuse  of  me  is  fearful  to  think  of 
If  any  thing  could  waken  a  thoughtless  creature  sleep 
ing  on  enchanted  ground,  it  was  this.' 


218  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

" '  There  has  never  been  anything  more  than  the 
semblance  of  love  between  us,'  she  continued.  '  The 
more  intimately  I  came  to  know  him,  after  our  marriage, 
the  more  did  my  soul  separate  itself  from  him,  until 
the  antipodes  were  not  farther  apart  than  we.  So  we 
lived  on ;  I  seeking  a  poor  compensation  in  fashionable 
emulations  aud  social  triumphs ;  and  he  in  grand 
business  enterprises — castles  in  the  air  perhaps.  Liv 
ing  thus,  we  have  conie  to  this  point  in  our  journey ; 
and  now  the  crisis  has  arrived  !' 

"  She  paused. 

"'What  crisis?'  I  asked. 

" i  He  demands  a  separation/  Her  voice  choked — 
'a  divorce — ' 

"  <  On  what  ground  ?' 

"  '  On  legal  ground.'  She  bent  down,  covered  her 
face,  and  uttered  a  groan  so  full  of  mental  anguish, 
that  I  almost  shuddered  as  the  sound  penetrated  my 
ears. 

" '  I  am  to  remain  passive,'  she  resumed,  while  he 
charges  me  before  the  proper  court,  with  infidelity, 
and  gains  a  divorce  through  failure  on  my  part  to 
stand  forth  and  defend  myself.  This,  or  a  public  trial 
of  the  case,  at  which  he  pledges  himself  to  have  wit 
nesses  who  will  prove  me  criminal,  is  my  dreadful 
alternative.  If  he  gains  a  divorce  quietly  on  the 
charge  of  infidelity,  I  am  wronged  and  disgraced  ;  and 
if  successful  in  a  public  trial,  through  perjured  witnesses, 
the  wrong  and  disgrace  will  be  more  terrible.  Oh,  my 
friend  !  pity  and  counsel  me.' 


THE  STRENGTH  OF  INNOCENCE.       219 

"  '  There  is  one,'  said  I,  <  better  able  to  stand  your 
friend  in  a  crisis  like  this  than  I  am.' 

"  <  Who  ?'     She  looked  up  anxiously. 

"<  Your  father.' 

"A  shadow  fell  over  her  face,  and  she  answered 
mournfully, 

" '  Even  he  is  against  me.  How  it  is  I  cannot  tell ; 
but  my  husband  seems  to  have  my  father  completely 
under  his  influence.' 

"  '  Your  mother  ?'  I  suggested. 

"  '  Can  only  weep  with  me.  I  have  no  adviser,  and 
my  heart  beats  so  wildly  all  the  time,  that  thought 
confuses  itself  whenever  it  makes  an  effort  to  see  the 
right  direction.  Fear  of  a  public  trial  suggests  passive 
endurance  of  wrong  on  my  part;  but  an  innate  sense 
of  justice  cries  out  against  this  course,  and  urges  me 
to  resistance.' 

"  '  If  you  are  innocent,'  said  I,  firmly,  '  in  the  name 
and  strength  of  innocence  defend  yourself !  All  that 
a  woman  holds  dearest  is  at  stake.  If  they  drive  you 
to  this  great  extremity,  do  not  shrink  from  the  trial.' 

" <  But  what  hope  have  I  in  such-  a  trial  if  false 
witnesses  come  up  against  me?' 

"  '  God  and  justice  are  stronger  than  all  the  powers 
of  evil,'  said  I. 

" '  They  might  be,  in  your  case,'  she  answered, 
mournfully  ;  i  for  you  have  made  God  your  friend,  and 
justice  your  strong  tower.  But  I — what  have  I  to 
hope  for  in  God  ?  He  has  not  been  in  all  my  thoughts  ; 
and  now  will  He  not  mock  at  my  calamity  ?' 

"  *  No — no,  my  unhappy  friend  !'  I  answered.    '  He 


220  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

never  turns  from  any ;  it  is  we  who  turn  from  Him. 
His  tender  mercy  is  over  all  His  works.  All  human 
souls  are  alike  precious  in  His  eyes.  If  you  trust  in 
Him,  you  need  not  fear  your  bitterest  enemies.' 

"<  How  shall  I  trust  in  him  ?' 

"  She  bent  towards  me' eagerly. 

"'  In  the  simple  work  of  doing  right,'  said  I. 

"'Doing  right?' 

"  She  did  not  clearly  understand  me. 

"  '  Do  you  think  it  would  be  right  to  let  a  charge  of 
crime  lie,  unrepelled,  against  you ;  a  great  crime,  such 
as  is  alleged — destroying  your  good  name,  and  throw 
ing  a  shadow  of  disgrace  over  your  children  !' 

*"  No,'  was  her  unhesitating  reply. 

"  '  Then  it  would  be  wrong  for  you  to  suffer  a  di 
vorce  to  issue  on  the  ground  of  infidelity,  without  a 
defence  of  yourself  by  every  legal  means  in  your 
power.  Do  right,  then,  in  so  defending  yourself,  and 
trust  in  God  for  the  result.' 

"  '  I  shudder  at  the  bare  thought  of  a  public  trial,' 
she  answered. 

"  i  Don't  think  of  anything  but  right  action,'  said  I. 
*  If  you  would  have  the  Hosts  of  Heaven  on  your  side, 
give  them  power  by  doing  the  right;  and  they  will 
surely  achieve  for  you  the  victory  over  all  your  ene 
mies.  Have  any  steps  been  taken  by  Mr.  Dewey  ?" 

"'I  fear  so.' 

"  '  How  long  is  it  since  your  husband  entertained 
this  purpose  ?' 

"  *  I  think  it  has  been  growing  in  his  mind  ever 
since  that  unhappy  affair  at  Saratoga.' 


THE  CRIMINAL  LETTER.          221 

"  As  she  said  this,  her  thoughts  seemed  to  turn 
aside  upon  something  else,  and  she  sat  looking  down 
upon  the  floor  in  a  state  of  deep  abstraction.  At  last, 
taking  a  long  breath,  she  looked  up,  and  said  with 
trembling  lips  and  a  husky  voice, 

"  '  I  have  something  more  to  tell  you.  There  is 
another  aspect  to  this  miserable  affair.' 

"And  she  drew  forth  a  crumpled  letter. 

" '  I  found  this,  sealed,  and  directed,  lying  on  the 
floor  of  my  husband's  room,  two  days  ago.  It  is  in 
his  hand  writing ;  addressed  to  a  lady  in  New  York, 
and  signed  R.  D.  I  will  read  you  its  contents.'  And 
she  unfolded  the  letter,  and  read  : 

"'My  dearest  Caroline,'  it  began;  and  then  went 
on  for  a  few  paragraphs,  in  a  lover-like  strain ;  after 
which,  the  divorce  from  the  writer's  wife  was  referred 
to  as  a  thing  of  speedy  attainment,  there  being  little 
fear  of  opposition  on  her  part,  as  he  had  given  her  to 
understand  that  he  had  witnesses  ready  to  prove  her 
criminal  conduct,  if  she  dared  to  resist  his  will  in  the 
matter.  'A  few  months  of  patient  waiting,  dearest 
Caroline,'  was  the  concluding  sentence,  '  and  then  for 
that  happy  consummation  we  have  so  long  desired.' 

" l  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?'  asked  poor  Delia, 
looking  almost  wildly  into  my  face. 

" '  I  think,'  said  I,  '  that  you  hold  in  your  hands 
the  means  of  safety.  Your  v  husband  will  not  dare  to 
force  you  into  a  defensive  position,  when  he  learns 
that  you  have  this  document  in  your  possession.  It 
would  tell  strongly  against  him  and  his  perjured  wit 
nesses  if  produced  in  court.  Then  take  heart,  my 


222  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 

friend.  This  worst  evil  that  you  dreaded  will  not 
come  to  pass.  If  a  divorce  is  granted,  it  will  have  to 
be  on  some  different  allegation.' 

"  She  grasped  my  hand,  and  said,  <  Oh,  do  you 
think  so  ?  Do  you  think  so  ?' ' 

"  '  I  am  sure  of  it,'  was  my  confident  answer.  *  Sure 
of  it.  Why  the  man  would  only  damage  his  cause, 
and  disgrace  himself,  by  venturing  into  a  trial  with  a 
witness  like  this  against  him.' ' 

" '  Oh,  bless  you  for  such  confidently  assuring 
words  !'  and  the  poor  creature  threw  herself  forward, 
and  laid  her  face  upon  my  bosom.  For  the  first  time 
she  wept,  and  for  a  season,  oh  how  wildly  !  You  will 
not  wonder  that  my  tears  fell  almost  as  fast  as  hers. 

"'I  turned  in  my  despair  to  you,'  she  said,  on 
growing  calm,  *  you  whom  I  loved,  and  almost  revered, 
in  the  earlier  and  better  days  of  my  life,  and  my  heart 
tells  me  that  I  have  not  turned  in  vain.  Into  the 
.  darkness  that  surrounded  me  like  the  pall  of  death,  a 
little  light  has  already  penetrated.'  >: 

"  May  it  shine  unto  the  perfect  day  !"  I  answered 
fervently. 

"  And,  dear  husband  !  it  will  shine,"  said  Con 
stance,  a  glow  of  enthusiasm  lighting  up  her  face,  and 
giving  it  a  new  beauty,  "  even  unto  the  perfect  day  ! 
Not  the  perfect  day  of  earthly  bliss — for  I  think  the 
sun  of  that  day  has  gone  «down  never  to  rise  again  for 
her — but  the  perfect  day  of  that  higher  life,  which  to 
many  comes  not,  except  through  the  gates  of  tribula 
tion." 


WORLDLY   PRUDENCE.  223 


CHAPTER    XXII.y-r' 

I  WAS  shocked  and  distressed  by  the  painful  revela 
tion  which  Mrs.  Dewey  had  made  to  Constance.  A 
sadder  history  in  real  life  I  had  never  heakL 

A  few  days  after  this  memorable  visit  to  the  Allen 
House,  a  note  was  received  by  my  wife,  containing  this 
single  word,  "  Come"  and  signed  DELIA. 

"Any  change  in  the  aspect  of  affairs?"  I  inquired 
of  Constance  on  her  return. 

"Yes.  Mrs.  Dewey  has  received  notice,  in  due 
form,  of  her  husband's  application  for  a  divorce." 

"What  has  she  done?" 

"  Nothing  yet.  It  was  to  ask  my  advice  as  to  her 
best  course  that  she  sent  for  me." 

"And  what  advice  did  you  give  her ?" 

"  I  gave  none.     First,  I  must  consult  you." 

I  shook  my  head  and  replied, 

"  It  will  not  do  for  me  to  be  mixed  up  in  this  affair, 
Constance." 

Worldly  prudence  spoke  there. 

My  wife  laid  her  hand  upon  my  arm,  and  looking 
calmly  in  my  face,  said, 

"  The  right  way  is  always  a  safe  way." 

"  Granted." 


224  TWENTY  TEARS  AGO,   AND   NOW. 

"  It  will  be  right  for  you  to  give  such  advice  as  your 
judgment  dictates,  and  therefore  safe,  I  do  not  know 
much  about  law  matters,  but  it  occurs  to  me  that  her 
first  step  should  be  the  employment  of  counsel." 

"  Is  her  father  going  to  stand  wholly  aloof?"  I  in 
quired. 

"  Yes,  if  she  "be  resolved  to  defend  herself  in  open 
court.  He  will  not  sanction  a  course  that  involves  so 
much  disgrace  of  herself  and  family." 

"  Has  she  shown  him  the  letter  you  saw  ?" 

"No." 

"Why?" 

"  I  think  she  is  afraid  to  let  it  go  out  of  her  hands." 

"  She  might  trust  it  with  her  father,  surely,"  said  I. 

"  Her  father  has  been  very  hard  with  her  ;  and 
seems  to  take  the  worst  for  granted.  He  evidently 
believes  that  it  is  in  the  power  of  Dewey  to  prove  her 
guilty  ;  and  that  if  she  makes  any  opposition  to  his 
application  for  a  divorce,  he  will  hold  her  up  disgraced 
before  the  world." 

"  This  letter  might  open  his  eyes." 

"  The  letter  is  no  defence  of  her ;  only  a  witness 
against  him.  It  does  not  prove  her  innocence.  If  it 
did,  then  it  would  turn  toward  her  a  father's  averted 
face.  In  court  its  effect  will  be  to  throw  doubt  upon 
the  sincerity  of  her  husband's  motives,  and  to  show  that 
he  had  a  reason,  back  of  alleged  infidelity,  for  wishing 
to  be  divorced  from  his  wife." 

"I  declare,  Constance !"  said  I,  lookitg  at  my  wife 
in  surprise,  "  you  have  taken  upon  yourself  a  new 
character.  I  think  the  case  is  safe  in  your  hands,  and 


WALLINGFORD  RECOMMENDED  AS  ADVISER.      225 

that  Mrs.  Dewey  wants  no  more  judicious  friend.  If 
you  were  a  man,  you  might  conduct  the  defence  for  her 
to  a  successful  issue." 

"  I  am  not  a  man,  and,  therefore,  I  come  to  a  man," 
she  replied,  "  and  ask  the  aid  of  his  judgment.  I  go 
by  a  very  straight  road  to  conclusions ;  but  I  want  the 
light  of  your  reason  upon  these  conclusions." 

"  I  am  not  a  lawyer  as  you  are  aware,  Constance — 
only  a  doctor." 

"  You  are  a  man  with  a  heart  and  common  sense," 
she  answered,  with  just  a  little  shade  of  rebuke  in  her 
tones,  "  and  as  God  has  put  in  your  way  a  wretched 
human  soul  that  may  be  lost,  unless  you  stretch  forth 
a  saving  hand,  is  there  any  room  for  question  as  to 
duty  ?  There  is  none,  my  husband !  Squire  Floyd 
believes  his  daughter  guilty ;  and  while  he  rests  in  this 
conclusion,  he  will  not  aid  her  in  anything  that  points 
to  exposure  and  disgrace.  She  must,  therefore,  if  a 
vigorous  defence  is  undertaken,  look  elsewhere  for  aid 
and  comfort." 

I  began  to  see  the  matter  a  little  clearer. 

"Mr.  Wallingford  is  the  best  man  I  know." 

"Mr.  Wallingford!"  I  thought  Constance  would 
have  looked  me  through. 

"Mr.  Wallingford!"  she  repeated,  still  gazing 
steadily  into  my  face.  "  Are  you  jesting  ?" 

"No,"  I  replied  calmly.  "In  a  case  that  involves 
so  much,  she  wants  a  wise  and  good  defender ;  and  I 
do  not  know  of  any  man  upon  whom  she  could  so 
thoroughly  rely." 

Constance  dropped  her  eyes  to  the  floor. 


226  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,    AND   NOW. 

"It  would  not  do,"  she  said,  after  some  moments. 

"Why?" 

"  Their  former  relation  to  each  other  precludes  its 
possibility." 

"  But,  you  must  remember,  Constance,  that  Delia 
never  knew  how  deeply  he  was  once  attached  to  her." 

"  She  knows  that  he  offered  himself." 

"  And  that,  in  a  very  short  time  afterwards,  he  met 
her  with  as  much  apparent  indifference  as  if  she  had 
never  been  to  him  more  than  a  pleasant  acquaintance. 
Of  the  struggle  through  which  he  passed,  in  the  work 
qf  obliterating  her  image  from  his  mind,  she  knows 
nothing." 

"But  he  knows  it,"  objected  Constance. 

"  And  what  does  that  signify  ?  Will  he  defend  her 
less  skillfully  on  this  account  ?  Rather  will  he  not 
feel  a  stronger  interest  in  the  case  ?" 

"  I  do  not  think  that  she  will  employ  him  to  defend 
her,"  said  Constance.  "  I  would  not,  were  the  case 
mine." 

"Womanly  pride  spoke  there,  Constance." 

"  Or  rather  say  a  manly  lack  of  perception  in  your 
case." 

"Perception  of  what?" 

"  Of  the  fitness  of  things,"  she  answered. 

"  That  is  just  what  I  do  see,"  I  returned.  "  There 

is  no  man  in  S better  fitted  for  conducting  this 

case  than  Mr.  Wallingford." 

"  She  will  never  place  it  in  his  hands  ;  you  may  take 
a  woman's  word  for  that,"  said  my  wife  confidently. 
"  Of  all  living  men  he  is  the  last  one  to  whom  she 


GOOD   COUNSEL.  227 

could  talk  of  the  humiliating  particulars  involved  in  a 
case  like  this." 

"  Suppose  you  suggest  his  name  to  her.  Twelve 
years  of  such  a  life  as  she  has  led  may  have  almost 
obliterated  the  memory  of  that  passage  in  her  life." 

"  Don't  believe  it.  A  woman  never  forgets  a  pas 
sage  like  that ;  particularly  when  the  events  of  every 
passing  day  but  serve  to  remind  her  of  the  error  she 
once  committed." 

"I  don't  know  what  else  to  advise,"  saidl!.  "  She 
ought  to  have  a  good  and'  discreet  man  to  represent 
her,  or  all  may  be  lost." 

"  Would  you  have  any  objection  to  confer  with  Mr. 
Wallingford  on  the  subject  in  a  private,  confidential 
way?" 

"None  in  the  world,"  I  replied. 

"Will  you  see  him  at  once  ?"  The  interest  of  Con 
stance  was  too  strongly  excited  to  brook  delay. 

"  Yes,  immediately." 

And  putting  on  my  overcoat  I  went  to  the  office  of 
Mr.  Wallingford.  I  found  him  alone,  and  at  once  laid 
the  whole  case  before  him — relating,  with  particular 
ity,  all  that  had  occurred  between  my  wife  and  Mrs. 
Dewey.  He  -listened  with  deep  and  pitying  attention ; 
and  when  I  was  through,  expressed  his  opinion  of 
Dewey  in  very  strong  language. 

"  And  now  what  is  to  be  done  ?"  I  asked,  going  at 
once  to  the  vital  question. 

"  Your  wife  is  right,"  he  answered.  "  I  can  hardly 
become  her  advocate.  It  would  involve  humiliation 
on  her  part  too  deep  to  be  borne.  But  my  aid  she 


228  TWENTY   YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

shall  have  to  the  fullest  extent ;  and  it  will  be  strange 
if  I  do  not  thwart  his  wicked  scheme." 

"  How  will  you  aid  her  ?" 

"  Through  her  right  attorney,  if  my  advice  as  to  the 
choice  be  followed.  You  know  James  Orton  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  He  is  a  young  man  to  be  relied  upon.  Let  Mrs. 
Dewey  put  the  case  in  his  hands.  If  she  does  so,  it 
will  be,  virtually,  in  mine." 

"Enough,  Mr.  Wallingford,"  said  I.  "It  looks 
more  hopeful  for  our  poor  unhappy  friend,  against 
whom  even  her  own  flesh  and  blood  have  turned." 

When  I  gave  Constance  the  result  of  my  interview 
with  Mr.  Wallingford,  she  was  quite  elated  at  the  pros 
pect  of  securing  his  most  valuable  aid  for  Mrs.  Dewey. 
Orton  was  young,  and  had  been  practising  at  the  bar 
for  only  a  couple  of  years.  Up  to  this  time  he  had 
not  appeared  in  any  case  of  leading  importance ;  and 
had,  therefore,  no  established  reputation.  Our  fear 
was  that  Mrs.  Dewey  might  not  be  willing  to  place  her 
case  in  such  inexperienced  hands.  In  order  to  have 
the  matter  settled  with  as  little  delay  as  possible,  Con 
stance  paid  an  early  visit  to  the  Allen  House,  and 
suggested  Mr.  Orton  as  counsel.  Mrs.  Dewey  had 
not  even  heard  his  name ;  but,  after  being  assured  that 
I  had  the  fullest  confidence  in  him,  and  particularly 
advised  his  employment,  she  consented  to  accept  of 
his  services. 

Their  first  interview  was  arranged  to  take  place  at 
my  house,  and  in  the  presence  of  my  wife,  when  the 
notice  Mrs.  Dewey  had  received  on  the  institution  of 


ANSWER  TO  THE  DIVORCE.          229 

proceedings,  was  placed  in  the  young  lawyer's  hands, 
and  some  conversation  had  as  to  the  basis  and  tenor 
of  an  answer.  A  second  interview  took  place  on  the 
day  following,  at  which  Mrs.  Dewey  gave  a  full  state 
ment  of  the  affair  at  Saratoga,  and  asserted  her  inno 
cence  in  the  most  solemn  and  impressive  manner.  The 
letter  from  her  hushand  to  the  lady  in  New  York,  was 
produced,  and  at  the  request  of  Mr.  Orton,  given  into 
his  possession. 

The  answer  to  Mr.  Dewey's  application  for  a  divorce 
was  drawn  up  by  Mr.  Wallingford,  who  entered  with 
great  earnestness  into  the  matter.  It  was  filed  in 
court  within  a  week  after  notice  of  the  application 
was  received.  This  was  altogether  unexpected  by  the 
husband,  who,  on  becoming  aware  of  the  fact,  lost  all 
decent  control  of  himself,  and  ordered  his  wretched 
wife  to  leave  his  house.  This,  however,  she  refused  to 
do.  Then  she  had  her  father's  angry  opposition  to 
brave.  But  she  remained  firm. 

"He  will  cover  you  with  infamy,  if  you  dare  to 
persevere  in  this  mad  opposition,"  he  said. 

And  she  answered— 

"  The  infamy  may  recoil  upon  his  own  head.  I  am 
innocent — I  will  not  be  such  a  traitor  to  virtue  as  to 
let  silence  declare  me  guilty." 

There  was  a  pause,  now,  for  a  few  weeks.  The  un 
happy  state  of  affairs  at  the  Allen  House  made  it 
hardly  proper  for  my  wife  to  continue  her  visits  there, 
and  Mrs.  Dewey  did  not  venture  to  call  upon  her. 
The  trial  of  the  case  would  not  come  up  for  some  two 


230  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 

or  three  months,  and  both  parties  were  waiting,  in 
stern  resolution,  for  the  approaching  contest. 

One  day  I  received  a  message  from  Mrs.  Dewey, 
desiring  me  to  call  and  see  two  of  her  children  who 
were  sick.  On  visiting  them — the  two  youngest — I 
found  them  seriously  ill,  with  symptoms  so  like  scar- 
letina,  that  I  had  little  question  in  my  mind  as  to  the 
character  of  the  disease  from  which  they  were  suffer 
ing.  My  second  visit  confirmed  these  fears. 

"It  is  scarlet  fever?"  said  Mrs.  Dewey,  looking  at 
me  calmly,  as  I  moved  from  the  bed-side  after  a  care 
ful  examination  of  the  two  little  ones. 

I  merely  answered — 

"Yes." 

There  was  no  change  in  her  countenance. 

"  They  are  both  very  ill." 

She  spoke  with  a  slow  deliberateness,  that  was  un 
usual  to  her. 

"They  are  sick  children,"  said  I. 

"  Sick,  it  may  be,  unto  death." 

There  was  no  emotion  in  her  voice. 

I  looked  at  her  without  replying. 

"  I  can  see  them  die,  Doctor,  if  that  must  be." 

Oh,  that  icy  coldness  of  manner,  how  it  chilled  me  ! 

"  No  hand  but  mine  shall  tend  them  now,  Doctor. 
They  have  been  long  enough  in  the  care  of  others — 
neglected — almost  forgotten — by  their  unworthy  mo 
ther.  But  in  this  painful  extremity  I  will  be  near 
them.  I  come  back  to  the  post  of  duty,  even  at  this 
late  hour,  and  all  that  is  left  for  me,  that  will  I. do." 

I  was  deeply  touched  by  her  words  and  manner. 


CALM   INTERVIEW.  231 

The  latter  softened  a  little  as  she  uttered  the  closing 
sentence.  fc 

"  You  look  at  the  darkest  side,"  I  answered.  "  With 
God  are  the  issues  of  life.  He  calls  us,  our  children, 
or  our  friends,  in  His  own  good  time.  We  cannot  tell 
how  any  sickness  will  terminate;  and  hope  for  the 
best  is  always  our  truest  state." 

"I  hope  for  the  best,"  she  replied:  but  with  some 
thing  equivocal  in  her  voice. 

"The  best  is  life,"  I  said,  scarcely  reflecting  upon 
my  words. 

"  Not  always,"  she  returned,  still  speaking  calmly. 
"Death  is  often  the  highest  blessing  that  God  can 
give.  It  will  be  so  in  the  present  case." 

"Madam!" 

My  tone  of  surprise  did  not  move  her. 

"It  is  simply  true,  Doctor,"  she  made  answer. 
"  As  things  are  now,  and  as  they  promise  to  be  in  the 
future,  the  safest  place  for  these  helpless  innocents  is 
in  Heaven ;  and  I  feel  that  their  best  Friend  is  about 
to  remove  them  there  through  the  door  of  sickness." 

I  could  not  bear  to  hear  her  talk  in  this  way.  It 
sent  cold  chills  through  me.  So  I  changed  the  subject. 

On  the  next  day,  all  the  symptoms  were  unfavor 
able.  Mrs.  Dewey  was  calm  as  when  I  last  saw  her ; 
but  it  was  plain  from  her  appearance,  that  she  had 
taken  little  if  any  rest.  Her  manner  towards  the  sick 
babes  was  full  of  tenderness ;  but  there  was  no  be 
trayal  of  weakness  or  distress  in  view  of  a  fatal  ter 
mination.  She  made  no  anxious  inquiries,  such  as 
are  pressed  on  physicians  in  cases  of  dangerous  illness ; 


TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

but  received  my  directions,  and  promised  to  give  them 
a  careful  observance,  with  a  self-possession  that  showed 
not  a  sign  of  wavering  strength. 

I  was  touched  by  all  this.  How  intense  must  have 
been  the  suffering  that  could  so  benumb  the  heart ! — 
that  could  prepare  a  mother  to  sit  by  the  couch  of 
her  sick  babes,  and  be  willing  to  see  them  die !  I 
have  witnessed  many  sad  scenes  in  professional  expe 
rience  ;  but  none  so  sad  as  this. 

Steadily  did  the  destroyer  keep  on  with  his  work. 
There  were  none  of  those  nattering  changes  that  some 
times  cheat  us  into  hopes  of  recovery,  but  a  regular 
daily  accumulation  of  the  most  unfavorable  symptoms. 
At  the  end  of  a  week,  I  gave  up  all  hope  of  saving 
the  children,  and  made  no  more  vain  attempts  to  con 
trol  a  disease  that  had  gone  on  from  the  beginning, 
steadily  breaking  away  the  foundations  of  life.  To 
diminish  the  suffering  of  my  little  patients,  and  make 
their  passage  from  earth  to  Heaven  as  easy  as  possible, 
was  now  my  only  care. 

On  the  mother's  part,  there  was  no  sign  of  wavering. 
Patiently,  tenderly,  faithfully  did  she  minister  to  her 
little  ones,  night  and  day.  No  lassitude  or  weariness 
appeared,  though  her  face,  which  grew  paler  and  thin 
ner  every  day,  told  the  story  of  exhausting  nature. 
She  continued  in  the  same  state  of  mind  I  have  de 
scribed  ;  never  for  an  instant,  as  far  as  I  could  see, 
receding  from  a  full  consent  to  their  removal. 

One  morning,  in  making  my  usually  early  call  at 
the  Allen  House,  I  saw,  what  I  was  not  unprepared  to 
sec,  a  dark  death  sign  on  the  door. 


BOTH    DEAD.  233 

"All  over?"  I  said  to  the  servant  who  admitted 
me. 

"  Yes,  sir,  all  is  over,"  she  replied. 

"Both  gone?" 

"Yes,  sir,  both." 

Tears  were  in  her  eyes. 

"When  did  they  die?"' 

"About  midnight." 

"  At  the  same  time  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  Dear  little  souls !  They  went  toge 
ther." 

"  I  will  go  up  to  see  them,"  said  I. 

And  the  girl  showed  me  to  the  room  in  which  they 
were  laid.  The  door  was  closed.  I  opened  it,  and 
stepped  in  softly.  The  room  was  darkened ;  but  light 
came  in  through  a  small  opening  in  the  curtains  at  the 
top  of  the  window,  and  fell  in  a  narrow  circle  around 
the  spot  where  the  bodies,  already  in  their  snowy  grave 
clothes,  were  laid.  In  a  chair  beside  them  sat  the 
mother.  She  was  alone  with  her  dead.  I  felt  that  I 
was  an  intruder  upon  a  sorrow  too  deep  for  tears  or 
words ;  but  it  was  too  late  to  recede.  So  I  moved 
forward  and  stood  by  the  bedside,  looking  down  upon 
the  two  white  little  faces,  from  which  had  passed  every 
line  of  suffering. 

Mrs.  Dewey  neither  stirred  nor  spoke,  nor  in  any 
way  gave  token  that  she  was  aware  of  my  presence  in 
the  room.  I  stood  for  over  a  minute  looking  upon  the 
sweet  images  before  me — for  in  them,  death  had  put 
on  forms  of  beauty — and  still  there  was  no  movement 
on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Dewey.  Then,  feeling  that  she 


234  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

was  with  One  who  could  speak  to  her  heart  by 
an  inner  way,  better  than  I  could  speak  through 
the  natural  ear,  I  quietly  receded  and  left  the  apart 
ment.  As  my  eyes  rested  on  her  a  moment,  in  closing 
the  door,  I  saw  that  her  form  remained  as  still  as  a 
statue. 


HOW  CHANGED!  235 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

AN  hour  later,  when  Constance  went  to  see  Mrs. 
Dewey,  she  found  her  in  a  state  of  unconsciousness, 
nature  having  at  last  given  way.  Not  long  after  I 
left  the  house,  her  mother,  on  entering  the  room  where 
.  -the  children  were  laid  out,  found  her  insensible,  lying 
across  the  bed,  with  her  dead  babes  clasped  in  her 
arms. 

Mrs.  Floyd  sent  word  for  me  to  come  and  see  her 
daughter,  as  she  continued  in  a  lethargic  state.  I 
found  her  like  one  in  a  deep  sleep,  only  her  breathing 
was  light,  and  her  pulse  very  feeble,  but  regular.  She 
was  out  of  the  reach  of  my  skill,  and  in  the  hands  of 
the  Great  Physician.  I  could  only  trust  the  cure  to 
Him.  No  medicine  for  the  body  would  be  of  any 
avail  here.  I  called  again  in  the  afternoon  ;  but  found 
no  change.  How  little  was  there  in  the  pale,  pinched 
face  that  lay  among  the  white  pillows,  to  remind  me 
of  the  handsome,  dashing  Mrs.  Dewey,  of  a  year  gone 
by! 

"  What  do  you  think  of  her,  Doctor  ?" 

Mrs.  Floyd  put  the  question.  The  tone  had  in  it 
something  that  made  me  look  narrowly  into  the 
speaker's  face.  My  ears  had  not  deceived-  me. 


236 

There  was  the  wish  in  her  heart  that  Delia  might 
die! 

I  was  not  surprised  at  this.  And  yet  the  revela 
tion  of  such  a  state  of  feeling,  in  so  good  and  true  a 
woman,  as  I  had  reason  to  know  Mrs.  Floyd  to  be, 
made  my  heart  bound  with  a  throb  of  pain. 

Alas  !  alas  !  Into  what  unnatural  conditions  may  not 
the  mind  fall,  through  suffering  that  shuts  out  human 
hope  ! 

"  Nature,"  said  I,  in  answer  to  the  question  of  Mrs. 
Floyd,  "  may  be  only  gathering  up  her  powers  after  a 
long  period  of  exhaustion.  The  strife  through  which 
your  daughter  has  passed — calmly  passed  to  all  exter 
nal  seeming — has  not  been  without  a  wasting  of  inter 
nal  life.  How  she  kept  on  so  evenly  to  the  end,  passes 
my  comprehension.  There  is  not  one  woman  in  a 
thousand  who  could  have  so  borne  herself  through  to 
the  final  act.  It  is  meet  that  she  should  rest  now." 

"  If  she  were  sleeping  with  her  babes,  happy  would 
it  be  for  her !" 

Tears  fell  over  the  face  of  Mrs.  Floyd. 

"  God  knows  what  is  best,"  I  remarked. 

"She  has  nothing  to  live  for  in  this  world."  A  sob 
broke  from  its  repression,  and  heaved  the  mother's 
bosom.  "  0  Doctor,  if  I  saw  the  death  dews  on  her 
brow,  I  would  not  weep  !" 

"  Leave  her,  my  dear  friend,"  said  I,  "  in  the  hands 
of  Him  who  sees  deeper  into  the  heart  than  it  is  possible 
for  our  eyes  to  penetrate.  Her  feet  have  left  the  soft, 
flowery  ways  they  trod  for  a  time,  and  turned  into 
rough  paths,  where  every  footfall  is  upon  sharp  stones ; 


THE   STRENGTH   OF   INNOCENCE.  237 

but  it  may  be  that  a  blessed  land  is  smiling  beyond. 
She  has  been  astray  in  the  world,  and  God  may  only 
be  leading  her  homeward  by  the  way  of  sorrow." 

Mrs.  Floyd  wept  freely  as  I  talked. 

"His  will  be  done,"  she  said,  sobbing. 

"Your  daughter,"  said  I,  taking  the  occasion  to  bear 
my  testimony  on  the  favorable  side,  "  has  been  wronged 
without  question.  She  was  doubtless  imprudent,  but 
not  sinful ;  and  the  present  attempt  to  disgrace  her  I 
regard  as  a  cruel  wrong.  It  will  recoil,  I  trust,  in  a 
way  not  dreamed  of." 

"  0  Doctor,  let  me  thank  you  for  such  words  !" 

And  Mrs.  Floyd  caught  my  arm  with  an  eager  move 
ment. 

"  I  speak  soberly,  madam,  and  from  observation  and 
reflection.  And  I  trust  to  see  Delia  live  and  triumph 
over  her  enemies." 

"  Won't  you  talk  with  the  Squire,  Doctor  ?"  She 
still  grasped  my  arm.  "  He  will  not  hear  a  word  from 
me  in  favor  of  Delia.  Mr.  Dewey  has  completely 
blinded  him." 

"Wait  patiently,  Mrs.  Floyd,"  said  I,  in  a  tone  of 
encouragement.  "  Your  daughter  is  not  without  friends. 
There  are  those  upon  her  side,  who  have  the  will  and 
the  power  to  defend  her;  and  they  will  defend  her,  I 
believe  successfully." 

A  sigh  fluttered  through  the  room,  causing  us  both 
to  turn  quickly  towards  the  bed  on  which  Mrs.  Dewey 
was  lying.  Her  lips  were  moving  slightly ;  but  no 
change  appeared  on  her  death-like  face.  I  laid  my 
fingers  upon  her  wrist,  and  searched  for  her  pulse.  It 


238  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

was  very  low  and  thread-like ;  but  with  more  vitality 
than  on  the  occasion  of  my  first  visit  to  her  in  the 
morning. 

"  The  signs  are  favorable." 

Mrs.  Floyd  did  not  respond.  She  was  looking  at 
her  daughter  with  an  expression  of  unutterable  grief 
upon  her  countenance. 

I  did  not  attempt  to  give  medicine,  but  left  unerring 
nature  to  do  her  own  work. 

Mrs.  Dewey  did  not  again  look  upon  the  faces  of 
her  dead  children.  They  were  buried  ere  her  mind 
awoke  to  any  knowledge  of  passing  events.  I  was  at 
the  funeral,  and  closely  observed  her  husband.  He 
appeared  very  sober,  and  shed  some  tears  at  the  grave, 
when  the  little  coffins  were  lowered  together  into  the 
earth. 

It  was  a  week  before  Mrs.  Dewey  was  clearly  con 
scious  of  external  things.  I  visited  her  every  day, 
watching,  with  deep  interest,  her  slow  convalescence. 
It  was  plain,  as  her  mind  began  to  recover  its  faculties, 
that  the  memory  of  a  sad  event  had  faded ;  and  I  was 
anxious  for  the  effect,  when  this  painful  remembrance 
was  restored. 

One  day  I  found  her  sitting  up  in  her  room.  She 
smiled  feebly  as  I  came  in,  and  said : 

"Doctor,  am  I  never  going  to  get  well  ?  It  seems 
like  an  age  since  I  became  sick." 

"  You  are  getting  on  finely,"  I  answered,  in  a  cheer 
ful  way,  sitting  down  by  her  and  taking  her  hand, 
which  was  wasted  and  shadowy. 

"I   don't    know   about   that,    Doctor,"    she   said. 


FEARFUL   DREAMS.  239 

"  What  makes  me  so  weak  ?  I've  no  more  strength 
than  a  babe.  And  that  reminds  me  of  a  frightful 
dream  I  had."  And  her  countenance  changed. 

"A  dream?"  I  queried. 

"  Yes ;  I  thought  Aggy  and  Lu  were  both  dead  !  I 
saw  them  laid  out,  cold  and  white  as  statues,  just  as 
plainly  as  I  see  you  now." 

She  stopped  suddenly,  an  expression  of  fear  going 
over  her  face — then  looked  at  me  in  a  strange,  ques 
tioning  way. 

"Doctor" — she  leaned  towards  me,  with  lips  apart, 
and  eyes  full  of  a  sudden,  wild  alarm.  I  laid  my  hand 
upon  her,  and  said  : 

"  You  have  been  very  ill  for  some  time,  Mrs.  Dewey, 
and  are  too  weak  to  bear  excitement.  Don't  let  mere 
dreams  disturb  you." 

"  Dreams  ?"  Her  eyes  fell  from  mine.  "  Dreams  ?" 
she  repeated.  "  I  feel  very  weak,  Doctor,"  was  added, 
after  a  few  moments.  "  Won't  you  assist  me  to  lie 
down  ?" 

And  she  made  a  movement  to  rise.  I  took  her  arm 
and  supported  her  to  the  bed,  where  she  quietly  com 
posed  herself,  and  turned  her  face  away,  so  as  almost 
to  hide  it  from  my  view.  At  this  moment  Mrs.  Floyd 
came  in,  and  I  withdrew,  leaving  them  together. 

Memory  had  been  restored.  The  accompanying 
shock  was  severe,  but  not  heavy  enough  seriously  to 
retard  her  recovery,  which  went  on  slowly.  She  still 
remained  at  the  Allen  House,  rarely  meeting  her 
husband,  who  now  spent  a  large  part  of  his  time  in 
New  York. 


240  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 

The  period  fixed  for  a  trial  of  the  case  between  them 
was  fast  approaching.  He  continued  resolute,  and  she 
did  not  waver  from  her  purpose  to  defend  her  good 
name.  The  deep  interest  I  took  in  the  case,  led  me  to 
see  Mr.  Wallingford  often,  and  make  inquiry  as  to  the 
evidence  which  could  be  produced  in  Mrs.  Dewey's 
favor,  and  the  probable  chances  of  an  honorable  result. 
We  both  favored  a  settlement  of  the  difficulty  without 
a  trial  and  its  consequent  exposure,  if  that  were  possi 
ble.  But  how  to  prevent  this  was  the  difficult  question. 
Finally  it  was  determined  to  make  a  copy  of  the  letter 
found  by  Mrs.  Dewey,  and  enclose  it  to  her  husband, 
giving  him  warning  at  the  same  time  that  the  original 
would  be  produced  at  the  trial. 

Nothing  was  heard  in  response  to  this  movement, 
until  within  a  week  of  the  day  on  which  the  case  was 
expected  to  come  up,  when  Mr.  Dewey's  lawyer  called 
on  Mr.  Orton  to  know  if  it  was  still  his  intention  to 
meet  them  in  open  court  and  resist  their  application 
for  a  divorce.  On  being  assured  that  such  was  their 
purpose,  he  expressed  some  regret  at  the  consequent 
damage  to  the  lady's  reputation,  as  they  had  evidence 
against  her  of  the  most  conclusive  character.  Finally 
he  wished  to  know  whether,  in  case  a  new  ground  were 
taken — one  not  touching  the  lady's  good  name — any 
opposition  would  be  made.  Mr.  Orton  said  that  he 
would  consult  his  client,  and  answer  the  query  with  as 
little  delay  as  practicable. 

Mrs.  Dewey  expressed  a  willingness  to  remain  pas 
sive,  provided  no  allegations  were  made  in  the  new  bill 
that  even  remotely  cast  a  shadow  upon  her  virtue. 


A   DIVORCE  OBTAINED.  241 

But  Mr.  Wallingford,  on  taking  the  matter  into  fur 
ther  consideration,  advised  a  different  course  altogether 
— no  less  than  an  application  from  the  other  side,  on 
the  ground  of  neglect,  ill-treatment,  and  constructive 
conjugal  infidelity,  based  on  the  important  letter 
already  referred  to.  Mrs.  Dewey  caught  eagerly  at 
this  suggestion,  as  soon  as  it  was  presented  to  her.  If 
a  divorce  were  thus  obtained,  her  vindication  would  be 
complete. 

The  ranks  of  the  enemy  were  thrown  into  confusion 
by  this  diversion.  Mr.  Dewey  was  violent,  and  threat 
ened  most  terrible  consequences.  But  when  the  time 
set  for  the  case  to  come  up  arrived,  he  failed  to  ap 
pear. 

It  was  from  the  other  side  that  the  next  movement 
came.  A  divorce  was  applied  for  on  the  part  of  Mrs. 
Dewey,  in  a  bill  carefully  drawn  up  by  Mr.  Walling 
ford.  It  asked  not  only  for  a  legal  separation  from 
her  husband,  but  for  alimony,  and  the  possession  of 
the  two  remaining  children.  An  answer  was  filed; 
but  it  was  of  so  feeble  a  character  as  to  amount  to 
scarcely  anything  in  the  way  of  opposition.  The  chief 
argument  was  directed  against  the  claim  for  alimony. 
The  result  was  as  we  had  anticipated.  In  the  follow 
ing  spring  a  divorce  was  granted,  and  Mrs.  Dewey, 
with  her  two  children,  left  the  Allen  House  and  re 
turned  to  her  father's.  The  maintenance  allowed  by 
the  court,  was  one  thousand  dollars  a  year  for  herself, 
and  five  hundred  a  year  for  each  of  the  children  during 
their  minority. 

And  so  closed  this  exciting  drama,  begun  in  weak- 
16 


242  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

ness,  and  ending  in  hopeless  disaster.  Oh,  a  few 
years  !  How  many  broken  hearts  do  they  close  over  ? 
How  many  wrecks  of  goodly  lives  do  they  see  scattered 
among  the  breakers ! 

The  interposition  of  Mr.  Wallingford,  in  this  case, 
was  so  managed  as  to  keep  him  entirely  out  of  sight, 
and  Mrs.  Dewey  was  never  made  aware  of  the  fact 
that  he  had  rendered  her  a  great  service. 


MATRIMONIAL   RUMOR.  243 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

WE  did  not  see  a  great  deal  of  Mr.  Dewey  in 
S for  some  months  after  this.  I  heard  it  casu 
ally  remarked  that  he  was  traveling  in  the  South 
and  West,  for  a  part  of  the  time,  on  business.  The 
large  interests  of  his  firm  involved  in  the  two  mills, 
however,  made  his  presence  necessary  among  us,  and 
late  in  the  fall  he  came  back,  and  remained  through 
the  winter  residing  at  the  Allen  House. 

In  the  spring  a  rumor  got  afloat  that  Mr.  Dewey 
was  soon  to  be  married.  A  lady  in  New.  York  was 
mentioned ;  the  same,  it  was  said,  to  whom  the  letter 
found  by  Mrs.  Dewey  was  addressed.  A  few  signs  of 
renovation  at  the  Allen  House  gave  confirmation  of 
this  rumor,  which  at  length  assumed  a  more  positive 
shape. 

The  intimacy  between  Mrs.  Wallingford  and  Con 
stance,  had  grown  into  a  close  interior  friendship,  and 
scarcely  a  week  passed  that  an  evening  was  not  spent 
by  them  together,  sometimes  at  our  house,  and  some 
times  at  Ivy  Cottage.  Mr.  Wallingford  had  developed 
into  a  man  after  my  own  heart ;  and  so  I  shared,  when 
professional  engagements  allowed,  in  the  enjoyment 
of  these  pleasant  seasons. 


244  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND   NOW. 

One  evening  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wallingford  came  round 
to  spend  an  hour  with  us.  I  was  happily  at  leisure. 
Conversation  naturally  falls  into  the  current  of  passing 
events,  and  on  this  occasion,  the  approaching  marriage 
of  Mr.  Dewey  came  naturally  into  the  field  of  topics. 
This  led  to  a  review  of  the  many  strange  circumstan 
ces  connected  with  Mrs.  Wallingford's  presence  in 

S ,  and  naturally,  to  an  inquiry  from  my  wife 

as  to  the  present  position  of  the  property  left  by  Cap 
tain  Allen. 

"  What  about  this  young  Garcia  ?"  said  Constance, 
addressing  Mr.  Wallingford.  "  I  haven't  heard  of  him 
for  some  time." 

"He  is  at  school  yet,  I  believe,"  replied  Mr.  Wall 
ingford,  not  showing  much  interest  in  the  matter. 

"  He  must  be  nearly  of  age,"  said  I. 

"  About  twenty,  if  his  years  were  correctly  given." 

"  He  will  come  into  the  possession  of  a  handsome 
property,"  I  remarked. 

"  Yes,  if  it  can  be  found  by  the  time  he  is  ready  to 
receive  it." 

"  Can  be  found !  I  don't  comprehend  you,  Mr. 
Wallingford  ?  Do  you  mean  to  question  the  integrity 
of  the  men  who  are  executors  to  the  estate  ?" 

"  No.  But,  they  have  embarked  in  the  same  vessel 
with  an  unscrupulous  villain — so  I  regard  Ralph 
Dewey — and  have,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  given  the  rud 
der  into  his  hands.  If  he  do  not  wreck  them  on  some 
dangerous  coast,  or  sunken  rock,  it  will  be  more  from 
good  fortune  than  anything  else." 

"  He  is  partner  in  a  very  wealthy  firm,"  said  I. 


MERCANTILE   DISHONOR.  245 

"  The  standing  of  Floyd,  Lawson,  Lee  &  Co.,  is,  you 
know,  undoubted.  He  can't  wreck  out  friends  Bigelow 
and  Floyd,  without  ruining  them  also." 

"  I  was  in  New  York  a  few  months  ago,  on  busi 
ness,"  Mr.  Wallingford  replied,  "  and  it  so  happened, 
that  I  heard  the  firm  of  which  Dewey  is  a  partner 
spoken  of.  Among  other  remarks,  was  this :  '  They 
are  thought  to  be  very  much  extended.' ' 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  that?"  asked  Mrs.  Wal 
lingford. 

"  It  is  understood  in  business  circles,"  replied  her 
husband,  "  to  mean,  that  a  house  is  doing  too  much 
business  for  the  amount  of  capital  employed,  and  that 
it  has  issued,  in  consequence,  a  large  amount  of  paper. 
Any  very  heavy  losses  to  a  firm  in  this  condition  might 
prove  disastrous." 

"Too  much  extended?"  said  I,  thoughtfully,  some 
new  impressions  forming  themselves  in  my  mind. 

"  Yes,  that  was  the  opinion  held  by  the  individual  I 
refer  to ;  and  he  was  not  one  to  speak  carelessly  on  so 
grave  a  matter." 

"  If  the  house  of  Floyd,  Lawson,  Lee,  &  Co.  should 
go  down,"  I  remarked,  "there  will  be  sad  work  in 

"  There  will,  without  any  doubt,"  replied  Mr.  Wal 
lingford. 

"  The  executors  to  the  Allen  estate  might  find  them 
selves  in  a  most  unfortunate  position,"  said  I. 

"  Such  a  position  as  I  would  not  be  in,  for  all  the 
world.  Any  thing  but  dishonor  !  " 

"How  dishonor?"  asked  Constance. 


246  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND   NOW. 

"  The  whole  estate  would  be,  I  fear,  involved." 

"  They  gave  security,"  said  I. 

"  But  the  sureties  are  not  worth  a  tenth  part  of  the 
sum  for  which  they  stand  responsible.  The  court 
acted  with  a  singular  want  of  discretion  in  appointing 
them." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  have  us  infer  that  Judge  Bige- 
low  and  Squire  Floyd  have  used  the  funds  of  this 
estate  for  their  own  purposes,  to  any  great  extent?" 

u  I  would  not  care  to  say  this  out  of  doors,  Doctor, 
but  that  is  just  my  opinion  of  the  matter  as  it  now 
stands.  Dewey  is  guardian  to  the  heir,  and  would 
favor,  rather  than  oppose,  such  a  use  of  the  funds." 

"  It  might  be  just  so  much  in  favor  of  the  heir,"  re 
marked  Mrs.  Wallingford,  "  if  two-thirds  of  the  pro 
perty  had  disappeared  by  the  time  he  reached  his 
majority;  for,  from  all  that  I  have  heard  of  him,  he 
is  not  likely  to  become  a  man  fitted  to  use  large  wealth 
either  to  his  own  or  any  body  else's  advantage.  He 
was  low  born  and  low  bred,  in  the  worst  sense  of  the 
words ;  and  I  fear  that  no  education  will  change  his 
original  quality,  or  greatly  modify  his  early  bias.  So 
while  the  wasting  of  his  substance  is  a  great  wrong  in 
the  abstract,  it  may  be  a  real  blessing  to  him.  Events 
in  this  life  work  out  strangely  to  our  human  eyes,  yet 
there  is  a  Providence  in  them  that  ever  educes  good 
from  evil." 

"If  we  could  always  believe  that,"  said  I,  "how 
tranquilly  might  we  pass  through  life  !  How  clearly 
would  our  eyes  see  through  the  darkest  clouds,  and 
rest  upon  the  silver  lining  !  " 


TREASURES   IN   HEAVEN.  247 

"  Is  it  not  so  ?  Does  not  God's  providence  follow 
us  in  the  smallest  things  of  our  lives  ?  Do  WL  take  a 
step  that  falls  outside  of  his  cognizance  ?  We  have 
only  to  look  back,  to  be  assured  of  this.  We  may 
walk  on  tranquilly,  Doctor,  for,  as  sure  as  we  live,  no 
evil  can  befal  us  that  does  not  have  its  origin  within 
our  own  spirits.  All  the  machinations  of  our  most 
bitter  enemies  will  come  to  naught,  if  we  keep  our 
hearts  free  from  guile.  They  may  rob  us  of  our 
earthly  possessions ;  but  even  this  God  will  turn  to  our 
greater  gain." 

Mrs.  Wallingford  spoke  with  a  charming  enthusi 
asm. 

"With  such  a  confidence,"  said  my  wife,  "one  is 
richer  than  if  he  had  the  wealth  of  an  Astor." 

"And  with  this  great  advantage,"  replied  Mrs. 
Wallingford,  "that  he  may  enjoy  the  whole  of  his 
possessions.  Moth  and  rust  never  corrupt  them  ;  and 
no  man  can  take  them  away." 

"  I  have  a  new  book  from  which  I  want  to  read  you 
a  sentiment,"  said  Constance,  rising,  and  moving  to 
wards  the  secretary  and  book-case,  which  stood  in  the 
room. 

Mrs.  Wallingford  rose  and  went  with  her. 

"  It  is  so  beautifully  accordant  with  many  things  I 
have  heard  you  say,"  added  my  wife,  as  she  took 
down  the  volume,  and  commenced  turning  over  its 
pages. 

After  reading  a  few  sentences,  and  commenting 
upon  them,  some  remark  directed  the  attention  of 
Mrs.  Wallingford  to  the  antiquated  secretary,  which 


248  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,  AND   NOW. 

was  the  one  I  had  purchased  when  the  furniture  of  the 
Allen  house  was  sold. 

"  I  have  reason  to  remember  this  old  secretary." 
she  said.  "  It  was  here  that  the  will  was  found  which 
cut  off  our  interest  in  the  estate  of  my  uncle." 

As  she  spoke  in  a  pleasant  way,  she  pulled  out  a 
drawer — the  very  one  which  had  suggested  conceal 
ment,  when  I  first  got  possession  of  the  piece  of  furni 
ture — and  said — 

"  This  is  where  the  will  lay  concealed." 

And  she  pressed  against  the  side  firmly,  when  a 
portion  of  it  yielded,  and  there  sprung  up  another 
drawer,  or  receptacle,  placed  in  vertically. 

We  were  all  very  much  interested  in  this  curious 
arrangement.  The  drawer  could  not  be  pulled  out 
much  beyond  half  its  depth ;  the  secret  portion  lying 
within  this  limit. 

As  I  stood  looking  at  the  drawer,  a  sudden  thought 
flashed  through  my  mind,  and  I  pressed  my  hand 
against  the  other  side.  It  began  to  yield  !  I  pressed 
harder,  and  up  sprung  a  corresponding  secret  recepta 
cle,  from  which  a  paper  fell  out.  A  hard  substance 
rattled  on  the  solid  wood.  It  was  a  gold  locket,  tied 
with  a  piece  of  blue  ribbon ;  and  attached,  with  a  seal, 
to  the  folded  paper. 

It  was  some  moments  before  a  hand  reached  forth 
to  lift  the  document.  It  was  at  length  taken  up  by 
Mr.  Wallingford.  As  he  did  so,  the  locket  swung 
free,  and  we  saw  that  it  contained  a  braid  of  dark 
hair.  Unfolding  the  paper,  and  stepping  back  to  the 
light,  he  read,  in  a  low,  firm  voice,  as  follows : 


THE   DISCOVERY   OF   THE   WILL.  249 

"  I,  John  Allen,  being  of  sound  mind,  do  make  this 
as  my  last  will  and  testament,  revoking,  at  the  same 
time,  all  other  wills.  I  give  and  bequeath  all  my  pro 
perty,  real  and  personal,  to  my  sister  Flora,  if  living ; 
or,  if  dead,  to  her  legal  heirs — reserving  only,  for  my 
wife,  Theresa  Garcia,  in  case  she  survive  me,  a  legacy 
of  five  hundred  dollars  a  year,  to  be  continued  during 
her  natural  life.  And  I  name  as  my  executors,  to 
carry  out  the  provisions  of  this  will,  Doctor  Edward 

,  and  James  Wilkinson,  of  the  town  of  S , 

State  of  Massachusetts." 

Then  followed  the  date,  which  was  recent,  com 
pared  with  that  of  the  other  wills,  and  the  signatures 
of  the  testator  and  witnesses,  all  in  due  form.  The  wit 
nesses  were  men  in  our  town,  and  well  known  to  us  all. 

At  the  reading  of  her  mother's  name,  Mrs.  Walling- 
ford  sat  down  quickly,  and,  covering  her  face,  leaned 
over  upon  the  centre  table.  I  saw  that  she  was  en 
deavoring  to  control  a  strong  agitation. 

I  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  The  ways  of  Providence  are  past  finding  out," 
said  I.  "  Let  me  congratulate  you  on  this  good  for 
tune." 

As  I  spoke,  Mrs.  Wallingford  rose  from  the  table, 
and,  going  to  her  husband,  placed  her  hands  upon  his 
arms,  and  looking  up  into  his  face,  fondly  and  tear 
fully,  said: — 

"  Dear  Henry  !  For  your  sake,  my  heart  is  glad 
to-night." 

He  laid  the  will  down,  as  if  it  were  a  thing  of  little 
value,  and  kissing  her,  said  : — 


250  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 

"  This  cannot  add  to  our  happiness,  Blanche,  and 
may  bring  care  and  trouble." 

"Not  more  trouble  than  blessing,"  she  replied,  "if 
rightfully  used." 

The  locket  attached  to  the  will  excited  our  curious 
interest.  It  was,  we  felt  sure,  the  same  that  Captain 
Allen's  mother  had  sent  to  him  by  the  hands  of  Jacob 
Perkins.  Doubtless,  some  memory  of  his  mother, 
stirred  by  the  sight  of  this  locket,  had  caused  him  to 
revoke  his  former  will,  and  execute  this  one  in  favor 
of  his  sister.  There  was  no  room  to  question,  for  a 
moment,  its  genuineness.  It  had  all  legal  formality, 
and  the  men  who  witnessed  the  signature  were  living 
and  well  known  to  us  all.  I  was  named  as  one  of  the 
executors.  So  there  was  some  perplexing  business 
before  me ;  for,  in  taking  things  as  they  were,  it  was 
not  probable  that  the  executors  under  the  former  will 
would  be  able,  promptly,  to  give  a  satisfactory  account 
of  their  trust,  or  to  hand  over  the  property  in  a  shape 
acceptable  to  the  right  heirs. 

But,  of  this,  more  anon.  Our  good  friends  went 
home  early  after  this  singular  discovery,  showing  more 
bewilderment  than  elation  of  manner.  I  think  that 
Constance  and  I  were  gladder  in  heart  than  they. 


THE  WITNESSES.  251 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  first  thing  done  was  to  place  the  will  on  re 
cord  ;  the  next  to  give  proper  legal  notice  of  its  exist 
ence  to  the  executors  under  the  previous  will,  Judge 
Bigelow  and  Squire  Floyd.  Mr.  Dewey,  on  the  an 
nouncement  of  this  discovery,  unhesitatingly  declared 
the  paper  a  forgery ;  but  the  witnesses  to  the  signa 
ture  of  Captain  Allen  were  living,  and  ready  to  attest 
its  genuineness.  They  remembered,  very  distinctly, 
the  time  when  their  names  were  appended  to  the  docu 
ment.  It  was  only  a  year  before  the  Captain's  death. 
They  were  walking  past  the  Allen  House,  when  the 
old  man  called  them  in,  and  asked  them  to  witness  the 
signing  of  a  paper.  Of  its  contents  they  had  no 
knowledge,  as  he  did  not  make  any  communication  on 
the  subject.  But  he  signed  it  in  their  presence,  and 
their  signatures  showed  this  will  to  be  the  paper  then 
executed. 

Notwithstanding  .this,  it  came  to  our  ears,  that  Mr. 
Dewey  persisted  in  alleging  fraud,  forgery,  and  the 
complicity  of  these  witnesses.  And  from  the  manner 
of  Judge  Bigelow  and  Squire  Floyd,  in  the  first  brief 
interview  I  had  with  them,  it  was  pla^n  that  they  were 
far  from  being  satisfied  that  all  was  right.  Their 


252  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,    AND   NOW. 

manner  was  that  of  men  utterly  confounded.  If  the 
property  in  question  had  been  held  by  them  as  really 
their  own,  they  could  hardly  have  exhibited  more 
feeling. 

After  the  will  was  entered  at  the  proper  office,  and 
thus  made  public,  the  following  paragraph  appeared  in 
our  "Weekly  Star:"— 

"  REMARKABLE  DISCOVERY  OF  A  WILL. — A  singu 
lar  circumstance  happened  in  our  town  last  week,  no 
less  than  the  discovery  of  a  new  and  more  recent  will 
of  the  late  Captain  Allen,  by  which  all  of  his  large 
property  is  devised  to  his  sister  and  her  heirs.  It 
was  found  in  a  secret  drawer,  contained  in  an  anti 
quated  French  Secretary,  which  Dr. bought 

when  the  furniture  of  the  Allen  House  was  sold,  pre 
vious  to  a  renovation  of  the  old  mansion  for  the  resi 
dence  of  Mr.  Ralph  Dewey.  The  late  Mrs.  Montgo 
mery,  who  resided  for  a  time  at  the  Allen  House,  was 
sister  to  Captain  Allen,  and  her  daughter  is  now  the 
wife  of  our  townsman,  Henry  Wallingford,  Esq.  We 
congratulate  the  parties  on  the  good  fortune  which 
has  come  to  their  door." 

The  marriage  of  Mr.  Dewey  took  place  within  a 
month  after  the  discovery  of  this  will,  and  he  brought 

his  new  wife  to  S ,  installing  her  as  mistress  of 

the  Allen  House.  She  was  a  showy  woman,  past 
thirty,  with  a  pair  of  brilliant  black  eyes,  and  a  dark, 
rich  complexion.  Her  long,  thin  nose,  and  delicate, 
but  proudly  arching  lips,  showed  her  to  possess  will 


THE   LATE   MRS.  DEWEY.  253 

and  determination.     It  was  the  rumor  in  S , 

that  she  brought  her  husband  a  considerable  fortune. 
But  she  was  not  well  received  among  us.  The  fami 
lies  of  Judge  Bigelow,  and  Joshua  Kling,  Cashier  of 
the  Clinton  Bank,  called  immediately.  Something 
later  called  the  wives  of  two  Directors  in  the  Bank, 
and  afterwards  the  wives  of  one  or  two  citizens  who 
had  embarked  some  capital  in  the  cotton  mills.  Be 
yond  this,  no  advances  were  made  towards  an  acquaint 
ance  with  the  new  Mrs.  Dewey. 

It  shocked  my  sensibilities  to  see  this  woman  dash 
ing  about  through  S in  the  elegant  equipage 

once  the  pride  of  the  now  humbled  daughter  of  Squire 
Floyd,  who,  since  the  divorce  granted  on  her  applica 
tion,  had  lived  in  strict  retirement  in  her  father's 
house.  The  only  time  when  she  was  seen  abroad, 
was  on  the  Sabbath,  at  church,  with  her  two  chil 
dren.  The  oldest,  a  daughter,  in  her  thirteenth  year ; 
and  the  youngest,  a  boy,  ten  years  of  age.  The  ter 
rible  ordeal  passed  through  by  this  unhappy  woman, 
had  told  upon  her  severely.  In  a  year,  she  seemed  to 
have  lived  ten.  All  the  fine  roundness  of  her  face 
and  person  had  given  way,  and  she  presented  the 
appearance  of  one  who  had  come  out  of  a  long  and 
exhausting  illness. 

Constance  made  it  a  point  of  duty  to  visit  her  often. 
She  found  her  states  of  mind  exceedingly  variable. 
Sometimes  she  was  in  patient,  tranquil  states,  and 
sometimes  she  manifested  great  bitterness  of  spirit, 
complaining  of  man's  cruel  selfishness,  and  God's  injus 
tice.  The  marriage  of  Mr.  Dewey  disturbed  her  con- 


254  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 


siderably.  One  day,  not  long  after  this  event,  Con 
stance  called  to  see  her.  She  was  in  one  of  her 
darker  moods ;  and  all  the  comforting  suggestions 
which  my  good  wife  could  make,  seemed  to  go  for  no 
thing.  They  were  sitting  near  a  window,  overlooking 
the  street,  when  Delia  suddenly  turned  pale,  and 
caught  her  breath.  A  carriage  went  sweeping  by  at 
the  moment,  drawn  by  two  spirited  horses, 

"Is  that  the  woman  ?"  she  exclaimed,  as  soon  as 
she  recovered  herself. 

"  That  is  the  woman,"  Constance  replied. 

Delia  clutched  her  hands  so  tightly  that  her  arms 
quivered,  and  grew  rigid ;  while  her'  pale  face  darkened 
with  an  expression  so  like  revenge,  that  Constance  felt 
a  shudder  of  fear  in  her  heart. 

"  If  my  prayers  for  her  are  answered,"  said  the  ex 
cited  woman,  speaking  through  her  closing  teeth, 
"  she  will  find  that  day  the  darkest  in  the  calendar  of 
her  life,  when  she  stepped  between  me  and  my  husband. 
I  have  only  curses  for  her  in  my  heart.  Only  cur 
ses  !" 

Constance,  startled,  and  almost  frightened  by  this 
wild  burst  of  feeling,  endeavored  to  soothe  her ;  but 
the  storm  was  too  fierce  to  own  the  power  of  her  gen 
tle  persuasions,  and  raged  on  for  its  brief  season. 

"  I  thought  her  mind  had  given  way,"  said  my  wife, 
on  relating  what  she  had  seen  and  heard.  "  It  was 
fearful  to  look  upon  a  human  creature  so  terribly 
moved." 

"  The  trial  to  her  feelings  must  have  been  very 
great,"  I  returned. 


THE   DIFFERENT   STATES   OF   DELIA.  255 

"But  I  thought  the  severe  discipline  through  which 
she  had  passed,  had  chastened  and  subdued  her,"  an 
swered  Constance.  "  I  saw,  or  believed  that  I  saw, 
the  beginnings  of  a  new  and  true  life  in  her  soul.  But 
over  all  this,  passion  has  swept  with  its  besom  of  de 
struction." 

"  The  better  states,"  I  replied,  "may  not  have  been 
destroyed  in  this  evil  whirlwind.  Such  states,  when 
once  formed,  usually  retire  and  hide  themselves  until 
the  storm  has  spent  its  fury." 

"  I  pray  that  it  may  be  so  in  this  case,"  said  Con 
stance.  "  But  from  what  I  saw  to-day,  my  fears  are  on 
the  other  side." 

In  the  mean  time  we  were  taking  such  steps  as  the 
responsibility  of  our  position  required,  towards  getting 
possession  of  the  property,  which,  under  the  will  of 
Captain  Allen,  must  come  into  our  hands.  My  co- 
executor,  Mr.  James  Wilkinson,  a  merchant  of  S , 

was  for  adopting  the  most  summary  proceedings.  He 
was  annoyed  at  the  questions,  doubts,  and  delays 
which  Judge  Bigelow  and  Squire  Floyd  permitted  to 
intervene ;  and  more  especially  by  the  intermeddling 
of  Dewey,  towards  whom,  from  some  cause,  he  enter 
tained  hostile  feeling. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  we  were  guided  in  all  our 
movements  by  Mr.  Wallingford.  At  the  earliest  term 
of  court,  we  brought  forward  the  claim  of  Mrs.  Wal 
lingford,  under  the  last  will  and  testament  of  her  uncle. 
A  feeble  effort  was  made  to  throw  doubt  upon  the 
genuineness  of  the  document ;  but  the  oath  of  the  wit 
nesses  to  the  signature  of  Captain  Allen  settled  the 


256  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

question  beyond  the  reach  of  cavil,  and  the  executors 
under  the  first  will  were  ordered  to  transfer,  by  a  cer 
tain  date,  all  property  belonging  to  the  estate  into  our 
hands. 

I  saw  plainly  enough,  from  the  beginning,  that  the 
idea  of  giving  an  account  of  their  stewardship  was 
not  an  agreeable  one  to  either  of  the  executors  under 
the  old  will.  The  direction  which  the  property  must 
take  was  one  that  would  not  admit  of  any  holding  back 
or  covering  up  on  their  part.  They  would  be  required 
to  exhibit  clean  hands. 

The  property  clearly  shown  as  having  passed  into 
their  possession,  was  the  old  mansion  and  valuable 
grounds,  which  had  been  sold,  under  an  order  of  the 
court,  at  a  heavy  sacrifice — bringing  only  thirty-five 
thousand  dollars,  instead  of  sixty  thousand,  its  real 
value — and  the  proceeds  re-invested.  Then  there  was 
other  town  property  worth  twenty  thousand  dollars, 
and  stocks  valued  at  as  much  more :  making  seventy- 
five  thousand  dollars  in  all  as  the  principal.  Interest 
added,  would  swell  the  sum  for  which  they  must  give 
account  to  over  one  hundred  thousand  dollars. 

It  was  found,  on  looking  into  the  business,  that  the 
whole  of  this  immense  sum  was  invested  in  the  cotton 
mills.  The  search  made  into  the  legal  condition  of 
these  mill  properties  was  not  satisfactory.  There  were 
several  mortgages  against  them,  one  of  which,  for 
twenty-five  thousand  dollars,  was  held  by  the  Clinton 
Bank  as  collateral  security  for  loans. 

After  various  delays  and  failures  on  the  part  of  the 
old  executors  to  meet  us  in  a  satisfactory  manner,  we 


THE   MILL   INVESTMENT.  257 

all  assembled,  by  appointment,  in  the  office  of  Judge 
Bigelow.  Mr.  Dewey  I  was  surprised  to  find  present. 
But  it  was  plain  that  he  was  there  either  by  the  con 
sent  or  request  of  the  Judge  and  Squire.  The  court 
had  given  a  certain  time  for  the  executors  under  the 
first  will  to  make  up  their  accounts,  and  hand  over  the 
property  in  trust.  That  time  had  expired. 

There  was  manifest  embarrassment  on  the  part  of 
Judge  Bigelow  and  his  associate ;  while  Dewey  looked 
stern  and  dogged.  We  soon  got  into  the  centre  of 
the  business,  and  found  it  pretty  earnest  work.  It 
was  admitted  by  the  executors  that  the  greater  portion 
of  the  estate  was  in  the  cotton  mills.  How  to  get  it 
out  was  the  question. 

"I  had  always  understood,"  said  Mr.  Wallingford, 
"that  the  mills  were  chiefly  owned  in  New  York." 

"The  New  York  interest  is  large,"  replied  Squire 
Floyd,  in  a  husky  voice. 

"And  can  be  increased,  no  doubt,  to  almost  any 
extent,  in  order  to  enable  you  to  withdraw  the  trust 
investments,"  resumed  Mr.  Wallingford. 

"  Why  cannot  you  let  it  remain  where  it  is  for  the 
present?  The  investment  is  safe  and  the  interest 
sure,"  said  Judge  Bigelow. 

"There  isn't  safer  security  in  the  state,"  spoke  up 
Mr.  Dewey,  with  animation. 

"  It  isn't  the  kind  of  security  we  wish  to  hold,"  said 
Mr.  Wilkinson  firmly.  "  We  have  given  heavy  bonds, 
and  prefer  to  get  the  property  in  a  different  shape." 

Here  followed  a  chilling  silence,  which  was  broken 
by  Mr.  Wallingford. 


258  TWENTY  TEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

"There  is  one  way  in  which  this  can  be  arranged," 
said  he. 

All  eyes  were  turned  upon  him. 

"  If  it  is  not  convenient  to  transfer  to  new  parties 
interests  of  such  magnitude,  we  will  take,  at  a  fail 
valuation,  the  Allen  House  and  grounds  appertaining 
thereto,  including  the  mill  site." 

Mr.  Dewey  was  on  his  feet  in  a  moment,  and  said— 

"Never!"  with  considerable  excitement  of  manner, 

Judge  Bigelow  and  Squire  Floyd  looked  at  eacl 
other  in  a  bewildered  manner,  and  then  at  Mr.  Dewey 
who  was  walking  the  floor  with  many  signs  of  disturb 
ance. 

"This  is  the  family  property,"  continued  Mr.  Wai 
lingford,  coolly — "  and  ought  never  to  have  been  sold 
It  is  but  fair  that  it  should  come  back." 

"It  can't  go  back,"  spoke  up  Mr.  Dewey.  "Th< 
present  owners  will  not  let  it  pass  out  of  their  hands.' 

"If  that  is  the  case,"  said  Mr.  Wallingford,  "w( 
shall  have  to  look  in  another  direction.  It  occurrec 
to  me  that  this  might  suit  all  parties,  and  lead  to  ai 
easy  arrangement.  But  if  that  cannot  be — if  th( 
present  owners,  to  use  Mr.  Dewey's  words,  will  not  lei 
it  go  back — then  my  suggestion  falls  to  the  ground 
and  we  must  look  to  the  investments  as  they  stand.  W( 
do  not  press  the  matter." 

I  observed  Mr.  Dewey  closely  ;  the  amount  of  feel 
ing  he  displayed  having  drawn  my  attention  upon  him, 
Once  or  twice  I  saw  him  dart  maligant  glances  towards 
Mr.  Wallingford.  And  so,  by  degrees,  I  began  to 
have  a  glimpse  of  what  was  passing  in  his  mind.  Tc 


BITTER   HUMILIATION.  259 

go  out  from  that  elegant  home,  and  let  Wallingford 
succeed  him  as  the  owner,  was  something  to  which  his 
proud  heart  could  not  submit — Wallingford,  the  once 
despised  and  contemned  student  of  his  uncle  !  That 
was  too  bitter  a  humiliation. 

As  nothing  could  then  be  decided,  another  meeting, 
to  take  place  in  three  or  four  days,  was  agreed  upon, 
and  we  separated. 


260  TWENTY  YEAKS  AGO,   AND   NOW. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

As  my  profession  kept  me  going  about  all  the  while, 
I  had  opportunities  for  observing  the  movements  of 
other  people.  The  day  following  the  meeting  referred 
to  in  the  last  chapter,  I  saw  Dewey,  the  Judge,  and 
the  Squire  together  several  times,  and  always  in  ear 
nest  talk.  As  I  came  home,  towards  evening,  I  saw 
them  all  entering  Mr.  Dewey's  residence.  It  was 
plain  that  there  was  trouble  in  the  camp. 

On  the  next  day,  Mr.  Dewey  left  town.  I  noticed 
him  going  into  a  car  at  the  depot.  When  the  time 
came  for  our  meeting,  a  postponement  was  asked  for. 
I  felt  like  demurring,  but  Mr.  Wallingford  readily 
consented. 

"  Give  them  a  little  more  time,'*  said  he,  as  we 
walked  away  from  Judge  Bigelow's  office.  "  It  will 
come  out  as  we  desired.  The  easiest  way  for  them  to 
arrange  with  us,  is  to  let  us  have  the  Allen  House 
property,  which  is  owned  by  the  firm  of  which  Dewey 
is  a  member ;  and  it  is  with  a  view  to'  this,  I  have  no 
doubt,  that  he  is  now  in  New  York." 

So  we  waited  a  few  days  longer.  The  return  of 
Mr.  Dewey  took  place  in  the  course  of  a  week,  when 
I  received  a  note  from  Judge  Bigelow,  asking  a  pri- 


EMBARRASSING    SITUATION.  261 

vate  interview.  I  found  him  and  his  nephew  alone. 
They  received  me  in  a  pleasant,  affable  way ;  and  the 
Judge  said  that  he  wished  to  have  a  little  talk  with  me 
before  another  formal  meeting  of  the  executors.  I 
answered  that  it  would  give  me  pleasure  to  confer  with 
him ;  though  I  could  neither  accept  nor  propose  any 
thing,  standing  alone.. 

"  It  is  not  with  a  view  to  that,  Doctor,"  replied  the 
Judge,  his  countenance  putting  on  a  shade  of  gravity 
that  nearly  obliterated  the  smiles  with  which  he  at 
first  received  me.  "  But  I  thought  it  might  help  to  a 
better  issue,  if  two  of  the  parties  representing  the 
opposite  interests  in  this  case  were  to  have  a  little 
informal  conversation." 

"I  am  ready  to  hear  any  thing  you  have  to  say, 
Judge,  and  shall  be  very  happy  if  I  can  aid,  in  any 
thing,  the  satisfactory  adjustment  of  these  matters." 

My  answer,  I  thought,  appeared  to  give  him  confi 
dence,  and  he  said — 

"  Without  doubt  you  can  aid,  Doctor.  The  position 
in  which  Squire  Floyd  and  myself  find  ourselves 
placed,  is  one  of  some  embarrassment.  In  making 
investments  of  the  property  which  came  into  our 
hands,  we  had  reference,  of  course,  to  its  security  and 
productiveness ;  at  the  same  time  looking  to  a  period, 
still  some  years  in  advance,  when  our  trust  would 
cease,  and  the  property  pass  in  due  course  to  the 
heir-at-law.  To  realize  on  these  investments  now, 
would  be  to  damage  the  interests  of  others;  and  I 
cannot  feel  that  it  would  be  right  for  you  to  urge  this. 
The  discovery  of  a  new  will,  bearing  a  later  date,  is  a 


262  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,    AND   NOW. 

thing  wholly  unexpected.  We  had  no  warning  to 
prepare  for  the  summary  action  growing  out  of  its 
appearance,  and,  as  I  have  just  intimated,  cannot  pro 
ceed  without  injury  to  others." 

"I  do  not  believe,"  said  Mr.  Dewey,  "that  the 
court,  if  the  case  was  fairly  stated,  would  require  this 
speedy  settlement  of  the  trust.  And  it  is  my  advice, 
that  the  whole  matter  be  referred  back  for  a  new  award 
as  to  time.  A  year  longer  should  be  conceded  to  the 
executors  under  the  old  will." 

"  That  would  be  equitable,"  said  the  Judge. 

"I  am  afraid,"  I  made  answer  to  this,  "that  Mr. 
Wallingford  will  not  consent  to  any  postponement." 

"  He  won't  ?  The  hound !"  I  was  startled  by  the 
fierceness  of  Dewey's  tone  of  voice,  and,  turning  to 
look  at  him,  saw  on  his  countenance  an  expression  of 
malignant  hatred. 

"  Ralph  !"  said  Judge  Bigelow,  in  a  warning  voice. 

"  I  can't  repress  my  indignation,"  answered  the 
nephew.  "  What  demons  from  the  nether  hell  have 
conspired  to  give  him  power  over  us  ?  If  it  had  been 
any  other  man  in  the  world  I  could  have  borne  it 
patiently." 

"Ralph!  Ralph!"  interposed  the  Judge,  in  a  de 
precating  voice. 

"  It  is  no  use,  uncle.  I  cannot  keep  down  my  feel 
ing,"  was  replied.  "To  see  you  hunted  by  this 
hound,  who  owes  you  everything." 

"Pardon  me,  Mr.  Dewey,"  said  I,  "but  I  cannot 
hear  such  language  used  towards  a  gentleman  of  irre 
proachable  character.  Mr.  Wallingford  is  not  entitled 


BAD    TEMPER.  263 

to  the  epithet  you  give ;  and  I  warn  you,  not  to  repeat 
that,  or  anything  like  it,  in  my  presence." 

"You  warn  me !" 

A  gleam  shot  towards  me  from  his  evil  eyes. 

"  Kalph !  silence !"    The  Judge  spoke  sternly. 

"Yes,  in  all  soberness,  I  warn  you,"  said  I,  fixing 
my  gaze  upon  him,  and  holding  his  eyes  until  they  fell 
to  the  floor.  "Mr.  Wallingford  is  not  the  man  to 
permit  any  one  to  use  language  about  him,  such  as  you 
have  indulged  in.  If  you  make  use  of  another  oppro 
brious  epithet,  I  will  communicate  the  fact  to  him  im 
mediately.  And  let  me  say,  that,  unless  a  different 
temper  is  manifested,  I  must  terminate  this  interview 
at  once." 

Judge  Bigelow  drew  his  nephew  aside,  and  talked 
for  some  time  with  him,  in  a  low,  earnest  tone ;  after 
which  the  latter  apologized,  though  with  an  ill  grace, 
for  the  intemperance  of  his  manner — alleging  that  an 
old  wound  smarted  whenever  Wallingford  crossed  his 
path. 

The  result  of  this  confidential' talk  was  not  as  favor 
able  on  my  mind  as  Judge  Bigelow  had  hoped  to  make 
it.  I  pitied  his  embarrassment ;  but  the  conduct  of 
Dewey  confirmed  my  previous  view  of  the  case,  which 
was  to  require  a  transfer  of  the  property  specified  by 
Mr.  Wallingford,  or  press  for  an  immediate  foreclosure 
of  the  mill  investments.  There  was,  I  felt  satisfied, 
hazard  in  delay. 

When  our  next  formal  meeting  took  place,  Dewey 
was  again  present.  It  was  in  my  thought  to  suggest 
that  he  was  not  a  party  covered  by  the  business  to  be 


264 

considered,  when  Mr.  Wallingford  said,  in  his  mild, 
grave  way — 

"  I  believe  this  is  a  meeting  of  the  Executors  under 
the  two  wills  of  Captain  Allen." 

The  meaning  of  his  remark  could  not  be  misunder 
stood,  for  he  glanced  towards  Mr.  Dewey  as  he  spoke. 
That  individual,  however,  did  not  choose  to  regard 
himself  as  referred  to,  and  made  no  sign.  But  Mr. 
Wallingford  was  not  the  man  to  let  a  deliberate  pur 
pose  fall  to  the  ground.  He  had  come  with  the  inten 
tion  of  objecting  to  Dewey's  presence  at  the  confer 
ence,  and  to  insist  upon  his  retiring,  as  a  preliminary 
to  business. 

No  one  replying  to  Mr.  Wallingford's  remark,  he 
said,  further — 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  be  uncourteous,  but  I  must  sug 
gest  the  propriety  of  Mr.  Dewey's  withdrawal." 

"I  am  an  interested  party,"  said  Dewey,  with  ill- 
concealed  anger. 

"Ah!  I  was  not  before  aware  of  this,"  replied 
Wallingford,  and  he  looked  inquiringly  towards  the 
Judge  and  Squire.  They  showed  an  uneasy  perplex 
ity  of  manner,  but  did  not  respond. 

"  In  what  way  are  you  interested  ?"  queried  Mr. 
Wallingford. 

"  I  am  one  of  the  guardians  to  the  heir  under  an 
existing  will." 

"  A  will  that  the  decision  of  our  court  has  rendered 
null  and  void,"  was  promptly  answered.  "We  have 
not  met  to  consider  questions  in  which  Leon  Garcia, 


INTERMEDDLING.  265 

or  his  representative,  has  any  concern.  Our  business 
refers  to  other  matters." 

Dewey  moved  uneasily,  and  seemed  struggling  to 
keep  down  his  rising  displeasure.  But  he  did  not 
manifest  any  intention  to  withdraw. 

"  Had  we  not  better  proceed  to  business  ?"  suggested 
Squire  Floyd. 

"Not  while  Mr.  Dewey  remains,"  said  I,  firmly 
taking  the  side  of  Mr.  Wallingford. 

"  Somebody  will  repent  himself  of  this  !"  exclaimed 
the  ill -governed  man,  passionately,  starting  to  his  feet, 
and  striding  from  the  office. 

"I  don't  understand  this  individual's  conduct,"  re 
marked  Wallingford,  in  a  serious  way.  "  Why  has  he 
presumed  to  intermeddle  in  our  business  ?  It  has  a 
bad  look." 

He  knit  his  brows  closely,  and  put  on  a  stern  as 
pect,  very  unusual  to  him. 

"You  probably  forget,"  said  Judge  Bigelow,  "that 
you  have  proposed  a  change  of  ownership  in  property 
now  occupied  by  him  ?" 

"  That  was  simply  to  give  you  more  latitude  in  set 
tling  up  the  estate  in  your  hands.  I  said  we  were 
willing  to  accept  that  property  at  a  fair  valuation, 
thinking  it  would  offer  a  desirable  mode  of  liquidation. 
It  is  for  you  to  say  yea  or  nay  to  us ;  not  Ralph 
Dewey.  If  you  cannot  gain  his  consent  to  the  trans 
fer,  there  is  an  end  of  that  proposal." 

I  really  commiserated  the  embarrassment  shown  by 
the  Judge  and  Squire.  They  seemed  to  be  in  a  maze, 
without  perceiving  the  right  way  of  extrication.  Dewey 


266 

appeared  to  have  over  them  some  mysterious  influence, 
above  which  they  had  not  power  to  rise. 

"If  Ralph  will  not  consent — " 

"Ralph  must  consent!"  exclaimed  Squire  Floyd, 
with  a  sudden  energy  of  manner,  and  the  exhibition 
of  a  degree  of  will  not  shown  before.  "  Ralph  must 
consent !  The  mode  of  adjustment  proposed  by  Mr. 
Wallingford  is  the  one  easiest  for  us  to  accomplish, 
and  I  shall  insist  on  Dewey's  giving  up  his  opposition. 
There  is  a  vast  deal  more  of  pride  than  principle  in 
volved  in  his  objection." 

The  Squire  was  breaking  away  from  his  fetters. 

"It  is  plain,"  added  Squire  Floyd,  "that  his  part 
ners  wish  that  property  to  go  in  preference  to  any 
other.  And  it  must  go." 

This  was  a  style  of  remark  quite  unexpected  on  our 
part ;  and  only  added  firmness  to  our  purpose.  The 
interview  was  not  prolonged  in  discussion.  We  merely 
reaffirmed  our  ultimatum,  and  gave  one  week  for  the 
two  men  to  decide  in  what  manner  to  close  their  trust. 


THE    DECISION.  267 


CHAPTER    XXVIL 

THE  decision  was  as  I  expected  it  to  be ;  and  the 
old  property  came  back  into  the  family.  There  were 
few  hearts  in  S ,  that  did  not  beat  with  plea 
sure,  when  it  was  known  that  Mr.  Wallingford  and  his 
lovely  wife  were  to  pass  from  Ivy  Cottage  to  the 
stately  Allen  House. 

I  think  the  strife  between  Mr.  Dewey  and  the  old 
executors  was  severe,  and  that  he  yielded  only  when 
he  saw  that  they  were  immovable.  An  open  rupture 
with  Squire  Floyd  was  a  consequence  of  his  persistent 
determination  to  have  the  Allen  property  transferred ; 
and  after  the  settlement  of  this  business,  they  held  no 
personal  communication  with  each  other. 

The  change  in  Mr.  Dewey 's  appearance,  after  it  be 
came  a  settled  thing  that  he  must  remove  from  the 
splendid  mansion  he  had  occupied  for  years,  was  re 
markable.  He  lost  the  impressive  swagger  that  always 

said,  "  I  am  the  first  man  in  S ;"  and  presented 

the  appearance  of  one  who  had  suffered  some  great 
misfortune,  without  growing  better  under  the  disci 
pline.  He  did  not  meet  you  with  the  free,  open,  bet- 
ter-than-you  look  that  previously  characterized  him, 
but  with  a  half  sidelong  falling  of  the  eyes,  in  which 
there  was,  to  me,  something  very  sinister. 


268 

As  far  as  our  observation  went,  Mr.  Wallingford 
put  on  no  new  phase  of  character.  There  was  about 
him  the  same  quiet,  thoughtful  dignity  of  manner 
which  had  always  commanded  involuntary  respect. 
He  showed  no  unseemly  haste  in  dispossessing  Mr. 
Dewey  of  his  elegant  home.  Two  months  after  the 
title  deeds  had  passed,  I  called  in  at  Ivy  Cottage, 

now  one  of  the  sweetest,  little  places  in  S ,  for 

Constance,  who  had  been  passing  the  evening  there. 
Not  in  any  home,  through  all  the  region  round,  into 
which  it  wai  my  privilege  to  enter,  was  there  radiant, 
like  a  warm,  enticing  atmosphere  that  swelled  your 
lungs  with  a  new  vitality,  and  gave  all  your  pulses  a 
freer  beat,  such  pure  love — maternal  and  conjugal — 
as  pervaded  this  sanctuary  of  the  heart.  I  say  ma 
ternal,  as  well  as  conjugal,  for  two  dear  babes  had 
brought  into  this  home  attendant  angels  from  the 
higher  heaven. 

A  soft  astral  lamp  threw  its  mellow  rays  about  the 
room.  Mr.  Wallingford  had  a  book  open  in  his  hand, 
from  which  he  had  been  reading  aloud  to  his  wife  and 
Constance.  He  closed  the  volume  as  I  entered,  and 
rising,  took  my  hand,  saying,  with  even  more  than  his 
usual  cordiality — 

"  Now  our  circle  is  complete." 

"  Excuse  me  from  rising,  Doctor,"  said  Mrs.  Wal 
lingford,  a  smile  of  welcome  giving  increased  beauty 
to  her  countenance,  as  she  offered  the  hand  that  was 
free — the  other  held  her  babe,  just  three  months  old, 
tenderly  to  her  bosom. 

"What  have  you  been  reading?"  I  asked,  as  1 


MARRIAGE   IN   HEAVEN.  269 

seated  myself,  and  glanced  towards  the  volume  which 
Mr.  Wallingford  had  closed  and  laid  upon  the  table. 

"  A  memorable  relation  of  the  Swedish  Seer,"  he 
replied,  smiling. 

"  Touching  marriage  in  heaven,"  said  I,  smiling  in 
return. 

"  Or,  to  speak  more  truly,"  he  replied,  "the  union 
of  two  souls  in  heaven,  into  an  eternal  oneness.  Yes, 
that  was  the  subject,  and  it  always  interests  me  deeply. 
Our  life  here  is  but  a  span,  and  our  brief  union  sha 
dowed  by  care,  pain,  sickness,  and  the  never-dying 
fear  of  parting.  The  sky  of  our  being  is  not  unclouded 
long.  And  therefore  I  cannot  believe  that  the  bles 
sedness  of  married  love  dies  forever  at  the  end  of  this 
struggle  to  come  into  perfect  form  and  beauty.  No, 
Doctor ;  the  end  is  not  here.  And  so  Blanche  and  I 
turn  often  with  an  eager  delight  to  these  relations, 
feeling,  as  we  read,  that  they  are  not  mere  pictures  of 
fancy,  but  heavenly  verities.  They  teach  us  that  if 
we  would  be  united  in  the  next  world,  we  must  become 
purified  in  this.  That  selfish  love,  which  is  of  the 
person  must  give  place  to  a  love  for  spiritual  qualities. 
That  we  must  grow  in  the  likeness  and  image  of  God, 
if  we  would  make  one  angel  in  His  heavenly  kingdom." 

His  eyes  rested  upon  Blanche,  as  he  closed  the  sen 
tence,  with  a  look  full  of  love ;  and  she,  as  if  she  knew 
that  the  glance  was  coming,  turned  and  received  it 
into  her  heart. 

I  did  not  question  the  faith  that  carried  them  over 
the  bounds  of  time,  and  gave  them  delicious  foresha- 
dowings  of  the  blessedness  beyond.  As  I  looked  at 


270  TWENTY  TEARS   AGO,  AND   NOW. 

them,  and  marked  how  they  seemed  to  grow  daily  into 
a  oneness  of  spirit,  could  I  doubt  that  there  was  for 
them  an  eternal  union  ?  No,  no.  Such  doubts  would 
have  been  false  to  the  instincts  of  my  own  soul,  and 
false  to  the  instincts  of  every  conscious  being  made  to 
love  and  be  loved. 

"The  laying  aside  of  this  earthly  investiture,"  said 
Wallingford,  resuming,  "  the  passage  from  mortal  to 
immortal  life,  cannot  change  our  spirits,  but  only  give 
to  all  their  powers  a  freer  and  more  perfect  develop 
ment.  Love  is  not  a  quality  of  the  body,  but  of  the 
spirit,  and  will  remain  in  full  force,  after  the  body  is 
cast  off  like  the  shell  of  a  chrysalis.  Still  existing,  it 
will  seek  its  object.  And  shall  it  seek  forever  and  not 
find  ?  God  forbid  !  No  !  The  love  I  bear  my  wife  is 
not,  I  trust,  all  of  the  earth,  earthy  ;  but  instinct  with 
a  heavenly  perpetuity.  And  when  we  sleep  the 
sleep  of  death,  it  will  be  in  the  confident  assurance  of 
a  speedy  and  more  perfect  conjunction  of  our  lives. 
On  a  subject  of  such  deep  concern,  we  are  dissatisfied 
with  the  vague  and  conjectural ;  and  this  is  why  the 
record  of  things  seen  and  heard  in  the  spiritual  world 
by  Swedenborg — especially  in  what  relates  to  mar 
riages  in  heaven — has  for  us  such  an  absorbing  inte 
rest." 

"  Are  you  satisfied  with  the  evidence  ?"  I  ventured 
to  inquire,  seeing  him  so  confident. 

"Yes." 

He  answered  quietly,  and  with  an  assured  man 
ner. 


THE   EYES    OF   THE   SPIRIT.  271 

"  How  do  you  reach  a  conclusion  as  to  the  truth  of 
these  things  ?" 

"  Something  after  the  same  way  that  you  satisfy 
yourself  that  the  sun  shines." 

"  My  eyes  testify  to  me  that  fact.  Seeing  is  believ 
ing,"  I  answered. 

"  The  spirit  of  a  man  has  eyes  as  well  as  his  body," 
said  Wallingford.  "And  seeing  is  believing  in  ano 
ther  sense  than  you  intimate.  Now  the  bodily  eyes 
see  material  objects,  and  the  mind,  receiving  their  tes 
timony,  is  in  no  doubt  as  to  the  existence,  quality,  and 
relation  of  things  in  the  outer  world.  The  eyes  of  our 
spirits,  on  the  other  hand,  see  immaterial  objects  or 
truths ;  and  presenting  them  to  the  rational  and  per 
ceptive  faculties,  they  are  recognized  as  actual  exist 
ences,  and  their  quality  as  surely  determined  as  the 
quality  of  a  stone  or  metal.  If  you  ask  me  how  I 
know  that  this  is  quartz,  or  that  iron  ;  I  answer,  By 
the  testimony  of  my  eyes.  And  so,  if  you  ask  how  I 
satisfy  myself  as  to  the  truth  of  which  I  read  in  this 
book ;  I  can  only  reply  that  I  see  it  all  so  clearly  that 
conviction  is  a  necessity.  There  is  no  trouble  in  be 
lieving.  To  attempt  disbelief,  would  be  to  illustrate 
the  fable  of  Sisyphus." 

He  spoke  calmly,  like  one  whose  mind  had  risen 
above  doubt.  I  objected  nothing  further;  for  that 
would  have  been  useless.  And  why  attempt  to  throw 
questions  into  his  mind  ?  Was  there  anything  evil  in 
the  faith  which  he  had  adopted  as  exhibited  in  his  life  ? 
I  could  not  say  yes.  On  the  contrary,  taking  his  life 
as  an  illustration,  good  only  was  to  be  inferred.  I 


272 

remembered  very  well  when  his  mind  diverged  into 
this  new  direction.  Some  years  had  intervened.  I 
thought  to  see  him  grow  visionary  or  enthusiastic. 
Not  so,  however.  There  was  a  change  progressively 
visible ;  but  it  was  in  the  direction  of  sound  and  ra 
tional  views  of  life.  A  broader  humanity  showed 
itself  in  his  words  and  actions.  Then  came  the  sub 
tler  vein  of  religious  sentiments,  running  like  pure 
gold  through  all  that  appertained  to  him. 

If,  therefore,  he  was  progressing  towards  a  higher 
life,  why  should  I  question  as  to  the  way  being  right 
for  him  ?  Why  should  I  seek  to  turn  him  into  another 
path  when  there  was  such  a  broad  light  for  his  eyes 
on  the  one  he  had  chosen  ?  "  By  their  fruits  ye  shall 
know  them."  And  by  his  fruits  I  knew  him  to  be  of  that 
highest  type  of  manhood,  a  Christian  gentleman. 

I  noticed,  while  Mr.  Wallingford  spoke  so  confi 
dently  of  their  reunion  in  heaven,  that  his  wife  leaned 
towards,  and  looked  at  him,  with  eyes  through  which 
her  soul  seemed  going  forth  into  his. 

As  the  conversation  flowed  on,  it  gradually  involved 
other  themes,  and  finally  led  to  the  question  on  my 
part,  as  to  when  they  were  going  to  leave  Ivy  Cot 
tage. 

"That  is  quite  uncertain,"  replied  Mr.  Wallingford. 
"  I  shall  not  hurry  the  present  occupant.  We  have 
been  so  happy  here,  that  we  feel  more  inclined  to  stay 
than  to  remove  to  a  more  ambitious  home." 

"I  hear  that  Mr.  Dewey  is  going  to  build,"  said  I. 

"Where?" 


NEGOTIATING   FOR   PROPERTY.  273 

"  He  has  been  negotiating  for  the  property  on  the 
elevation  west  of  the  Allen  House." 

«  Ah !" 

"  Yes.  The  price  of  the  ground,  five  acres,  is  ten 
thousand  dollars." 

"  The  site  is  commanding  and  beautiful.  The  finest 

in  S ,  for  one  who  thinks  mainly  of  attracting 

the  attention  of  others,"  said  Mr.  Wallingford. 

"  If  he  builds,  we  shall  see  something  on  a  grander 
scale  than  anything  yet  attempted  in  our  neighbor 
hood.  He  will  overshadow  you." 

"  The  rivalry  must  be  on  his  side  alone,"  was  Mr. 
Wallingford's  reply.  "  No  elegance  or  imposing 
grandeur  that  he  may  assume,  can  disturb  me  in  the 
smallest  degree.  I  shall  only  feel  pity  for  the  defect 
of  happiness  that  all  his  blandishments  must  hide." 

"A  splendid  Italian  villa  is  talked  of." 

Mr.  Wallingford  shook  his  head. 

"  You  doubt  all  this  ?"  said  I. 

"  Not  the  man's  ambitious  pride ;  but  his  ability  to 
do  what  pride  suggests.  He  and  his  compeers  are 
poorer,  by  a  hundred  thousand,  dollars,  than  they 
deemed  themselves  a  few  short  months  ago." 

"  Have  they  met  with  heavy  losses  ?  "  I  asked,  not 
understanding  the  drift  of  his  remark. 

"  The  estate  in  trust  has  been  withdrawn." 

"  How  should  that  make  them  poorer  ?  " 

"  It  makes  them  poorer,  in  the  first  place,  as  to  the 

means  for  carrying  on  business.     And  it  makes  them 

poorer,  in  the  second  place,  in  the  loss  of  an  estate, 

which,  I  am  sorry  to  believe,  Mr.  DeVey  and  a  part 

18 


274 

of  his  New  York  associates  regarded  as  virtually  their 
own." 

"But  the  heir  was  approaching  his  majority," 
said  I. 

"And  growing  up  a  weak,  vicious,  self-indulgent 
young  man,  who,  in  the  hands  of  a  shrewd,  unscrupu 
lous  villain,  might  easily  be  robbed  of  his  fortune. 
You  may  depend  upon  it,  Doctor,  that  somebody  has 
suffered  a  terrible  disappointment,  and  one  from  which 
he  is  not  likely  soon  to  recover.  No — no !  We  shall 
see  nothing  of  this  princely  Italian  villa." 

"I  cannot  believe,"  I  replied,  "that  the  executors 
who  had  the  estate  in  trust  were  influenced  by  disho 
norable  motives.  I  know  the  men  too  well." 

"  Nor  do  I,  Doctor,"  he  answered,  promptly.  "But, 
as  I  have  before  said,  they  were  almost  wholly  under 
the  influence  of  Dewey,  and  I  think  that  he  was  lead 
ing  them  into  mazes  from  which  honorable  extrication 
would  have  been  impossible." 

"Have  you  given  Dewey  any  notice  of  removal?" 
I  inquired. 

"  No — and  shall  not,  for  some  time.  I  am  in  no 
hurry  to  leave  this  place,  in  which  the  happiest  days 
of  my  life  have  passed.  Any  seeming  eagerness  to 
dispossess  him,  would  only  chafe  a  spirit  in  which  I 
would  not  needlessly  excite  evil  passions.  His  pride 
must,  I  think,  lead  him  at  a  very  early  day  to  remove, 
and  thus  make  a  plain  way  before  me." 

"  How  long  will  you  wait  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Almost  any  reasonable  time." 


WISE   MAXIMS.  275 

"  You  and  he  might  not  take  the  same  view  of  what 
was  reasonable,"  said  I. 

"  Perhaps  not.  But,  as  I  remarked  just  now,  being 
in  no  hurry  to  leave  our  present  home,  I  shall  not 
disturb  him  for  some  months  to  come.  No  change  will 
be  made  by  us  earlier  than  next  spring.  And  if  he 
wishes  to  spend  the  winter  in  his  present  abode,  he  is 
welcome  to  remain." 

There  was  no  assumed  virtuous  forbearance  in  all 
this  ;  but  a  sincere  regard  for  the  feelings  and  comfort 
of  Dewey.  This  was  so  apparent,  that  I  did  not 
question  for  a  moment  his  generous  consideration  of  a 
man  who  would  not  have  hesitated,  if  the  power  were 
given,  to  crush  him  to  the  very  earth. 

Many  thoughts  passed  in  my  mind,  as  I  pondered 
the  incidents  and  conversation  of  this  evening.  In 
looking  back  upon  life,  we  see  the  sure  progress  of 
causes  to  effects ;  and  in  the  effects,  the  quality  of  the 
causes.  We  no  longer  wonder  at  results — the  only 
wonder  is,  that  they  were  not  foreseen.  Wise  maxims, 
some  of  the  garnered  grains  of  our  fathers'  experi 
ences,  are  scattered  through  the  books  we  read,  and 
daily  fall  from  the  lips  of  teachers  and  friends ;  max 
ims  which,  if  observed,  would  lead  us  to  honor  and 
happiness.  But  who  gives  them  heed  ?  Who  makes 
them  the  rule  of  his  conduct  ? 

We  might  wonder  less  at  the  blind  infatuation  with 
which  so  many  press  onward  in  a  course  that  all  the 
wisdom  of  the  past,  as  well  as  all  the  reason  of  the 
present,  condemns,  if  it  were  possible  to  rub  out  our 
actions,  as  a  child  rubs  from  his  slate  a  wrong  sum, 


276  TWENTY  YEARS    AGO,    AND   NOW. 

and  begin  the  work  of  life  over  again.  But  this  can 
not  be.  We  weave  hourly  the  web  that  is  to  bind  us 
in  the  future.  Our  to-days  hold  the  fate  of  our  to 
morrows.  What  we  do  is  done  for  ever,  and  in  some 
degree  will  affect  us  throughout  infinite  ages. 

"Poor  Delia  Floyd!"  My  thought  had  turned  to 
her  as  I  lay  awake,  long  after  the  small  hours  of  the 
morning,  busy  with  incidents  and  reflections  which  had 
completely  banished  sleep  from  my  eyes.  In  the 
strong  pity  of  my  heart,  I  spoke  the  words  aloud. 

"What  of  her?"  said  Constance,  in  a  tone  of  sur 
prise.  And  so  intruding  thought  had  kept  her  awake 
also! 

"  Nothing  more  than  usual,"  I  answered.  "  But  I 
cannot  sleep  for  thinking  of  her  unhappy  state,  and 
what  she  might  have  been,  if  obeying  her  own  heart's 
right  impulses,  and  the  reason  God  gave  her,  she  had 
accepted  a  true  man,  instead  of  a  specious  villain  for 
her  husband.  The  scene  in  Ivy  Cottage  to-night  stands 
in  most  remarkable  contrast  with  some  things  I  wit 
nessed  at  the  Allen  House  before  she  went  out  thence 
a  wretched  woman  for  life.  She  staked  everything  on 
a  desperate  venture,  and  has  lost.  God  pity  her  !  for 
there  is  no  help  in  any  human  arm.  To  think  of  what 
she  is,  and  what  she  might  have  been,  is  enough  to 
veil  her  reason  in  midnight  darkness." 

"Amen!  God  pity  her!"  said  Constance.  "For 
truly  there  is  no  help  for  her  in  mortal  arm." 


CONSIDERATION  FOE  OTHERS.        277 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

THE  conduct  of  Mr.  Wallingford,  in  regard  to  the 
estate  -which  had  fallen  into  his  hands,  rather  puzzled 
Dewey.  He  had  anticipated  an  early  notification  to 
remove,  and,  true  to  his  character,  had  determined  to 
annoy  the  new  owner  by  vexatious  delays.  But  after 
the  passage  of  several  weeks,  in  which  came  to  him  no 
intimation  that  he  must  give  up  the  possession  of  his 
elegant  home,  he  began  to  wonder  what  it  could  mean. 

One  day,  not  long  after  the  conversation  with  Wall 
ingford,  mentioned  in  the  last  chapter,  I  met  Mr. 
Dewey  in  the  street.  He  stopped  me  and  said,  in  a 
half-sneering  way, 

"  What  of  our  honorable  friend  ?  Impatient,  I  sup 
pose,  to  see  the  inside  of  the  Allen  House  ?" 

"No,'*  I  replied,  "he  has  no  wish  to  disturb  you 
for  the  present." 

"  Indeed !  You  expect  me  to  believe  all  that,  of 
course." 

There  was  a  rudeness  in  his  manner  that  was  offen 
sive  ;  but  I  did  not  care  to  let  him  see  that  I  noticed 
it. 

"  Why  should  you  not  believe  my  remark  ?"  said  I. 
"Is  it  a  new  thing  in  your  experience  with  men  to 
find  an  individual  considerate  of  another  ?" 


278 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  considerate  of  another  ?" 

My  form  of  speech  touched  his  pride. 

"  Mr.  Wallingford  has  manifested  towards  you  a 
considerate  spirit,"  said  I,  speaking  slowly  and  dis 
tinctly*  "  It  naturally  occurs  to  him  that,  as  you  are 
so  pleasantly  situated  at  the  Allen  House,  an  early 
removal  therefrom  might  be  anything  but  desirable. 
And  so  he  has  rested  quietly  up  to  this  time,  leaving  a 
decision  as  to  the  period  with  yourself." 

"  Humph  !  Very  unselfish,  truly  !" 

His  lip  curled  in  disdain. 

"  If  you  feel  restive  under  this  concession  in  your 
favor,"  said  I,  putting  on  a  serious  manner,  "  I  would 
suggest  independence  as  a  remedy." 

He  looked  at  me  curiously,  yet  with  a  scowling  con 
traction  of  his  brows. 

"  Independence !  What  am  I  to  understand  by 
your  remark?" 

"  Simply  this,  Mr.  Dewey.  You  are  in  the  occu 
pancy  of  property  belonging  to  Mr.  Wallingford,  and 
by  his  favor.  Now,  if  you  cannot  receive  a  kindness 
at  his  hands,  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  manly  and  in 
dependent,  put  yourself  out  of  the  range  of  obliga 
tion." 

I  was  not  able  to  repress  a  sudden  feeling  of  indig 
nation,  and  so  spoke  with  warmth  and  plainness. 

"  Thank  you  for  your  plainness  of  speech,  Doctor,'* 
he  retorted,  drawing  himself  up  in  a  haughty  manner. 
"  As  to  removing  from  the  Allen  House,  I  will  do  that 
just  when  it  suits  my  pleasure." 

"Mr.  Wallingford,  you  may  be  assured,"  said  I, 


A   DISAGREEABLE   SUBJECT.  279 

"  will  not  show  any  unseemly  impatience,  if  you  do 
not  find  it  convenient  to  make  an  early  removal.  He 
knows  that  it  cannot  be  agreeable  for  you  to  give  up 
the  home  of  years,  and  he  is  too  much  of  a  Christian 
and  a  gentleman  to  do  violence  to  another's  feelings, 
if  it  can  be  in  any  way  avoided." 

"Pah!     I  hate  cant!" 

He  threw  his  head  aside  in  affected  disgust. 

"We  judge  men  by  their  actions,  not  their  words," 
said  I.  "  If  a  man  acts  with  considerate  kindness,  is 
it  cant  to  speak  of  him  in  terms  of  praise?  Pardon 
me,  Mr.  Dewey,  but  I  think  you  are  letting  passion 
blind  you  to  another's  good  qualities." 

"  The  subject  is  disagreeable  to  me,  Doctor.  Let 
us  waive  it." 

"It  was  introduced  by  yourself,  remember,"  I  re 
plied  ;  "  and  all  that  I  have  said  has  been  in  response 
to  your  own  remarks.  This  much  good  has  grown 
from  it.  You  know  just  how  Mr.  Wallingford  stands 
towards  you,  and  you  can  govern  yourself  according 
to  your  own  views  in  the  case.  And  now  let  me  vo 
lunteer  this  piece  of  advice.  Never  wantonly  give 
offence  to  another,  for  you  cannot  tell  how  soon  you 
may  find  yourself  in  need  of  his  good  services." 

Dewey  gave  me  a  formal  bow,  and  passed  on  his 
way. 

About  a  week  afterwards,  Judge  Bigelow  inquired 
of  Wallingford  as  to  when  he  wished  to  get  possession 
of  the  Allen  House. 

"  Whenever  Mr.  Dewey  finds  it  entirely  convenient 
to  remove,"  was  the  unhesitating  reply. 


280  TWENTY   YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

"  Suppose  it  should  not  be  convenient  this  fall  or 
winter?" 

"  Very  well.  The  spring  will  suit  me.  I  am  in  no 
hurry.  We  are  too  comfortable  in  Ivy  Cottage  to  be 
in  any  wise  impatient  for  change." 

"  Then  it  is  your  pleasure  that  Mr.  Dewey  remain 
until  spring?" 

"  If  such  an  arrangement  is  desirable  on  his  part, 
Judge,  it  is  altogether  accordant  with  my  feelings  and 
convenience.  Say  to  him  that  he  has  only  to  consult 
his  own  wishes  in  the  case." 

"  You  are  kind  and  considerate,  Mr.  Wallingford," 
said  the  Judge,  his  manner  softening  considerably,  for 
there  had  been  a  coldness  of  some  years'  standing  on 
the  part  of  Judge  Bigelow,  which  more  recent  events 
had  increased. 

"And  why  should  it  be  otherwise,  Judge?"  inquired 
his  old  student. 

"Mr.  Dewey  has  not  given  you  cause  for  either 
kindness  or  consideration." 

"  It  would  hurt  me  more  than  it  would  him,  were  I 
to  foster  his  unhappy  spirit.  It  is  always  best,  I  find, 
Judge,  to  be  right  with  myself." 

"  All  men  would  find  it  better  for  themselves,  were 
they  to  let  so  fine  a  sentiment  govern  their  lives,"  re 
marked  Judge  Bigelow,  struck  by  the  language  of 
Wallingford. 

"  It  is  the  only  true  philosophy,"  was  replied.  "  If 
a  man  is  right  with  himself,  he  cannot  be  wrong  towards 
others ;  though  it  is  possible,  as  in  my  case,  that  other 
eyes,  looking  through  a  densely  refracting  medium, 


THE   EXPLANATION.  281 

may  see  him  out  of  his  just  position.  But  he  would 
act  very  unwisely  were  he  to  change  his  position  for 
all  that.  He  will  be  seen  right  in  the  end." 

Judge  Bigelow  reached  out  his  hand  and  grasped 
that  of  Mr.  Wallingford. 

"  Spoken  like  a  man,  Henry !  Spoken  like  a  man  !" 
he  said,  warmly.  "  I  only  wish  that  Ralph  had  some 
thing  of  your  spirit.  I  have  seen  you  a  little  out  of 
your  right  position,  I  believe ;  but  a  closer  view  is  cor 
recting  the  error." 

Wallingford  returned  the  pressure  as  warmly  as  it 
was  given,  saying,  as  he  did  -so — 

"  I  am  aware,  Judge,  that  you  have  suffered  your 
mind  to  fall  into  a  state  of  prejudice  in  regard  to  me. 
But  I  am  not  aware  of  any  thing  in  my  conduct  to 
wards  you  or  others,  to  warrant  the  feeling.  If  in 
any  thing  I  have  been  brought  into  opposition,  .faith 
fulness  to  the  interests  I  represented  has  been  the  rule 
of  my  conduct.  I  have  sought  by  no  trick  of  law  to 
gain  an  advantage.  The  right  and  the  just  I  have  en 
deavored  to  pursue,  without  fear  and  without  favor. 
Can  you  give  me  a  better  rule  for  professional  or  pri 
vate  life?" 

"  I  cannot,  Henry,"  was  the  earnest  reply.  "  And 
if  all  men  would  so  pursue  the  right  and  the  just,  how 
different  would  be  the  result  for  each,  as  the  sure  adjust 
ment  of  advancing  years  gave  them  their  true  places 
in  the  world's  observation  !" 

The  Judge  spoke  in  a  half-absent  way,  and  with  a 
shade  of  regret  in  his  tones ;  Wallingford  noted  this 
with  a  feeling  of  concern. 


282  TWENTY   YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

"Let  us  be  friends  in  the  future,"  he  added,  again 
offering  his  hand  to  Wallingford. 

"  It  will  be  your  fault,  not  mine,  if  we  are  not  fast 
friends,  Judge.  I  have  never  forgotten  the  obligations 
of  my  boyhood ;  and  never  ceased  to  regret  the  aliena 
tion  you  have  shown.  To  have  seemed  in  your  eyes 
ungrateful,  has  been  a  source  of  pain  whenever  I  saw 
or  thought  of  you." 

The  two  men  parted,  each  feeling  better  for  the 
interview.  A  day  or  two  afterwards  Wallingford  re 
ceived  a  note  from  Judge  Bigelow  asking  him,  as  a 
particular  favor,  to  call  at  his  office  that  evening.  He 
went,  of  course.  The  Judge  was  alone,  and  received 
him  cordially.  But,  his  countenance  soon  fell  into  an 
expression  of  more  than  usual  gravity. 

"Mr.  Wallingford,"  he  said,  after  the  passage  of  a 
few  casual  observations,  "  I  would  like  to  consult  you 
in  strict  confidence  on  some  matters  in  which  I  have 
become  involved.  I  can  trust  you,  of  course  ?" 

"As  fully  as  if  the  business  were  my  own,"  was  the 
unhesitating  answer. 

"  So  I  have  believed.  The  fact  is,  Henry,  I  have 
become  so  entangled  in  this  cotton  mill  business  with 
Squire  Floyd,  Dewey,  and  others,  that  I  find  myself  in 
a  maze  of  bewildering  uncertainty.  The  Squire  and 
Ralph  are  at  loggerheads,  and  seem  to  me  to  be  getting 
matters  snarled  up.  There  is  no  denying  the  fact  that 
this  summary  footing  of  our  accounts,  as  executors, 
has  tended  to  cripple  affairs.  We  were  working  up  to 
the  full  extent  of  capital  invested,  and  the  absence  of 
a  hundred  thousand  dollars — or  its  representative 


HONEST   WARNING.  283 

security — has  made  financiering  a  thing  of  no  easy 
consideration." 

"I  am  afraid,  Judge  Bigelow,"  said  Wallingford,  as 
the  old  man  paused,  "  that  you  are  in  the  hands  of  one 
who,  to  gain  his  own  ends,  would  sacrifice  you  without 
a  moment's  hesitation." 

"  Who  ?" 

"You will  permit  me  to  speak  plainly,  Judge." 

"  Say  on.  The  plain  speech  of  a  friend  is  better 
than  the  flatteries  of  an  enemy." 

"  I  have  no  faith  in  Kalph  Dewey." 

The  two  men  looked  steadily  at  each  other  for  some 
moments. 

"Over  fifteen  years'  observation  of  the  man  has 
satisfied  me  that  he  possesses  neither  honor  nor  hu 
manity.  He  is  your  nephew.  But  that  does  not  sig 
nify.  We  must  look  at  men  as  they  are." 

"  His  movements  have  not  been  to  my  satisfaction 
for  some  time,"  said  the  Judge ;  speaking  as  though 
conviction  had  to  force  itself  upon  his  mind. 

"  You  should  canvass  all  he  does  with  the  closest 
care ;  and  if  your  property  lies  in  any  degree  at  his 
mercy,  change  the  relation  as  quickly  as  possible." 

"Are  you  not  prejudiced  against  him,  Henry?" 
The  Judge  spoke  in  a  deprecating  tone, 

"  I  believe,  sir,  that  I  estimate  him  at  his  real 
value ;  and  I  do  most  earnestly  conjure  you  to  set  to 
work  at  once  to  disentangle  your  affairs  if  seriously  in 
volved  with  his.  If  you  do  not,  he  will  beggar  you  in 
your  old  age,  which  God  forbid !" 


284  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND   NOW. 

"  I  am  far  from  sure  that  I  can  disentangle  my  af 
fairs,"  said  the  Judge. 

"  There  is  nothing  like  trying,  you  know."  Wal- 
lingford  spoke  in  a  tone  of  encouragement.  "And 
everything  may  depend  on  beginning  in  time.  In 
what  way  are  you  involved  with  him  ?" 

It  was  some  time  before  Judge  Bigelow  answered 
this  direct  question.  He  then  replied, 

."  Heavily  in  the  way  of  endorsements." 

"  Of  his  individual  paper  ?" 

"Yes.     Also  of  the  paper  of  his  firm." 

"To  an  extent  beyond  your  ability  to  pay  if  there 
should  be  failure  on  their  part  ?" 

"Yes;  to  three  times  my  ability  to  pay." 

Wallingford  dropped  his  eyes  to  the  floor,  and  sat 
for  some  time.  He  then  looked  up  into  Judge  Bige- 
low's  face,  and  said, 

"  If  that  be  so,  I  can  see  only  one  way  for  you." 

"  Say  on." 

"  Let  no  more  endorsements  be  given  from  this  day 
forth." 

"  How  can  I  suddenly  refuse  ?  The  thing  has  been 
going  on  for  years." 

"  You  can  refuse  to  do  wrong  on  the  plea  of  wrong. 
If  your  name  gives  no  real  value  to  a  piece  of  paper, 
yet  accredits  it  in  the  eyes  of  others,  it  is  wrong  for 
you  to  place  your  endorsement  thereon.  Is  not  this 
so?" 

"  I  admit  the  proposition,  Henry." 

"  Very  well.  The  only  way  to  get  right,  is  to  start 
right.  And  my  dear,  dear  sir  !  let  me  implore  you  to 


THE   FIRST    RIGHT   STEP.  285 

take  immediately  the  first  step  in  a  right  direction. 
Standing  outside  of  the  charmed  circle  of  temptation 
as  I  do,  1  can  see  the  right  way  for  your  feet  to  walk 
in  better  than  you  can.  Oh,  sir  !  Let  me  be  eyes, 
and  hands,  and  feet  for  you  if  need  be;  and  if  it  is 
not  too  late,  I  will  save  you  from  impending  ruin." 

Wallingford  took  the  old  man's  hand,  and  grasped 
it  warmly  as  he  spoke.  The  Judge  was  moved  by  this 
earnest  appeal,  coming  upon  him  so  unexpectedly; 
and  not  only  moved,  but  startled  and  alarmed  by  the 
tenor  of  what  was  said. 

"  The  first  thing,"  he  remarked,  after  taking  time 
to  get  his  thoughts  clear,  "  if  I  accept  of  your  friendly 
overtures,  is  for  me  to  lay  before  you  everything  just 
as  it  is,  so  that  you  can  see  where  I  stand,  and  how  I 
stand.  Without  this,  your  view  of  the  case  would  be 
partial,  and  your  conclusions  might  not  be  right." 

"  That  is  unquestionably  so,"  Wallingford  replied. 
"  And  now,  Judge,  if  you  wish  my  friendly  aid,  con 
fide  in  me  as  you  would  a  son  or  brother.  You  will 
find  me  as  true  as  steel." 

A  revelation  succeeded  that  filled  Mr.  Wallingford 
with  painful  astonishment.  The  endorsements  of 
Judge  Bigelow,  on  paper  brought  to  him  by  Dewey, 
and  of  which  he  took  no  memorandums,  covered,  no 
doubt,  from  a  hundred  to  a  hundred  and  fifty  thou 
sand  dollars !  Then,  as  to  the  affairs  of  the  Clinton 
Bank,  of  which  Judge  Bigelow  was  still  the  President, 
he  felt  a  great  deal  of  concern.  The  Cashier  and  Mr. 
Dewey  knew  far  more  about  the  business  and  condi 
tion  of  the  institution  than  anybody  else,  and  managed 


280  TWENTY   YEARS   AGO,    AND   NOW. 

it  pretty  much  in  their  own  way.  The  directors,  if  not 
men  of  straw,  might  almost  as  well  have  been,  for  all 
the  intelligent  controF  they  exercised.  As  for  Judge 
Bigelow,  the  principal  duty  required  of  him  was  to 
sign  his  name  as  President  to  great  sheets  of  bank 
bills,  the  denomination  running  from  one  dollar  to  a 
thousand.  Touching  the  extent  to  which  these  repre 
sentatives  of  value  were  issued,  he  knew  nothing  cer 
tain.  He  was  shown,  at  regular  periods,  a  statement 
wherein  the  condition  of  the  bank  was  set  forth,  and 
to  which  he  appended  his  signature.  But  he  had  no 
certain  knowledge  that  the  figures  were  correct.  Of 
the  paper  under  discount  over  two-thirds  was  drawn 
or  endorsed  by  Floyd,  Lawson,  Lee,  &  Co. 

At  the  time  Judge  Bigelow  began  investing  in  mill 
property,  he  was  worth,  in  productive  stocks  and  real 
estate,  from  thirty  to  forty  thousand  dollars.  He  now 
estimated  his  wealth  at  from  sixty  to  eighty  thousand 
dollars ;  but  it  was  all  locked  up  in  the  mills. 

The  result  of  this  first  interview  between  the  Judge 
and  Mr.  Wallingford  was  to  set  the  former  in  a  better 
position  to  see  the  character  of  his  responsibilities,  and 
the  extreme  danger  in  which  he  stood.  The  clear, 
honest,  common  sense  way  in  which  Wallingford 
looked  at  everything,  and  comprehended  everything, 
surprised  his  old  preceptor ;  and  gave  him  so  much 
confidence  in  his  judgment  and  discretion,  that  he 
placed  himself  fully  in  his  hands.  And  well  for  him 
was  it  that  he  did  so  in  time. 


THE   REFUSAL.  287 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

IN  accordance  with  the  advice  of  Mr.  Wallingford, 
the  first  reactionary  movement  on  the  part  of  Judge 
Bigelow,  was  his  refusal  to  endorse  any  more  paper 
for  his  nephew,  or  the  firm  of  which  he  was  a  member, 
on  the  ground  that  such  endorsements,  on  his  part, 
were  of  no  real  value,  considering  the  large  amounts 
for  which  he  was  already  responsible,  and  consequently 
little  better  than  fraudulent  engagements  to  pay. 

A  storm  between  the  uncle  and  nephew  was  the 
consequence,  and  the  latter  undertook  to  drive  the 
old  gentleman  back  again  into  the  traces,  by  threats 
of  terrible  disasters  to  him  and  all  concerned.  If 
Judge  Bigelow  had  stood  alone,  the  nephew  would 
have  been  too  strong  for  him.  But  he  had  a  clear- 
seeing,  honest  mind  to  throw  light  upon  his  way,  and 
a  young  and  vigorous  arm  to  lean  upon  in  his  hour  of 
weakness  and  trial.  And  so  Ralph  Dewey,  to  his 
surprise  and  alarm,  found  it  impossible  to  bend  the 
Judge  from  his  resolution. 

Then  followed  several  weeks,  during  which  time 
Dewey  was  flying  back  and  forth  between  New  York 

and  S ,  trying  to  re-adjust  the  disturbed  balance 

of  things.  The  result  was  as  Mr.  Wallingford  had 


288  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND   NOW. 

anticipated.  There  was  too  much  at  stake  for  the 
house  of  Floyd,  Lawson,  Lee,  &  Co.,  to  let  matters 
fail  for  lack  of  Judge  Bigelow's  endorsements.  Some 
other  prop  must  be  substituted  for  this  one. 

The  four  months  that  followed  were  months  of  anx 
ious  suspense  on  the  part  of  Judge  Bigelow  and  his 
true  friend,  who  was  standing  beside  him,  though  invi 
sible  in  this  thing  to  all  other  eyes,  firm  as  a  rocky 
pillar.  No  more  endorsements  were  given,  and  the 
paper  bearing  his  name  was  by  this  time  nearly  all 
paid. 

"  Bight,  so  far,"  said  Mr.  Wallingford,  at  the  expi 
ration  of  the  time  in  which -most  of  the  paper  bearing 
Judge  Bigelow's  name  reached  its  maturity.  "  And 
now  for  the  next  safe  move  in  this  difficult  game,  where 
the  odds  are  still  against  us.  You  must  get  out  of 
this  Bank." 

The  Judge  looked  gravely  opposed. 

"  It  may  awaken  suspicion  that  something  is  wrong, 
and  create  a  run  upon  the  Bank,  which  would  be 
ruin." 

"  Can  you  exercise  a  controlling  influence  in  the 
position  you  hold?  Can  you  be  true,  as  President 
of  the  Clinton  Bank,  to  the  public  interest  you  repre 
sent?" 

"  I  cannot.    They  have  made  of  me  an  automaton." 

"Very  well.  That  settles  the  question.  You  can 
not  honorably  hold  your  place  a  single  day.  There  is 
only  one  safe  step,  and  that  is  to  resign." 

"  But  the  loose  way  in  which  I  held  office  will  be 
exposed  to  my  successor." 


THE    RESIGNATION.  289 

"  That  is  not  the  question  to  consider,  Judge — but 
the  right.  Still,  so  far  as  this  fear  is  concerned,  don't 
let  it  trouble  you.  The  choice  of  successor  will  fall 
upon  some  one  quite  as  facile  to  the  wishes  of  Ralph 
Dewey  &  Company  as  you  have  been." 

The  good  counsels  of  Mr.  Wallingford  prevailed. 
At  the  next  meeting  of  the  Board  of  Directors,  the 
resignation  of  Judge  Bigelow  was  presented.  Dewey 
had  been  notified  two  days  before  of  what  was  coming, 
and  was  prepared  for  it.  He  moved,  promptly,  that 
the  resignation  be  accepted.  As  soon  as  the  motion 
was  carried,  he  offered  the  name  of  Joshua  Kling,  the 
present  Cashier,  for  the  consideration  of  the  Board, 
and  urged  his  remarkable  fitness.  Of  course,  Mr. 
Joshua  Kling  was  elected ;  and  his  place  filled  by  one 
of  the  tellers.  To  complete  the  work,  strong  compli 
mentary  resolutions,  in  which  deep  regret  at  the  re 
signation  of  Judge  Bigelow  was  expressed,  were  passed 
by  the  Board.  In  the  next  week's  paper,  the  follow 
ing  notice  of  this  change  in  the  officers  of  the  Bank 
appeared : 

"RESIGNATION  OF  JUDGE  BIGELOW. — In  consequence 
of  the  pressure  of  professional  engagements,  our  highly 
esteemed  citizen  Judge  Bigelow,  has  found  it  necessary 
to  give  up  the  office  of  President  in  the  Clinton  Bank, 
which  he  has  held  with  so  much  honor  to  himself  since 
the  institution  commenced  business.  He  is  succeeded 
by  Joshua  Kling,  Esq.,  late  Cashier ;  a  gentleman 
peculiarly  well-fitted  for  the  position  to  which  he  has 
been  elevated.  Harvey  Weems,  the  first  Teller,  takes 
19 


290  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

the  place  of  Cashier.  A  better  selection,  it  would  be 
impossible  to  make.  From  the  beginning,  the  affairs 
of  this  Bank  have  been  managed  with  great  prudence, 
and  it  is  justly  regarded  as  one  of  the  soundest  in  the 
State." 

> 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  the  grateful  Judge,  grasping 
the  hand  of  Wallingford,  who  called  his  attention  to 
this  notice,  "  what  a  world  of  responsibility  you  have 
helped  me  to  cast  from  my  shoulders  !  I  am  to-day  a 
happier  man  than  I  have  been  for  years.  The  new 
President  is  welcome  to  all  the  honor  his  higher  position 
may  reflect  upon  him." 

"The  next  work  in  order,"  remarked  the  Judge's 
clear-headed,  resolute  friend,  "  is  to  withdraw  your  in 
vestments  from  the  cotton  mills.  That  will  be  a  slower 
and  more  difficult  operation  ;  but  it  must  be  done,  even 
at  a  sacrifice.  Better  have  fifty  thousand  dollars  in 
solid  real  estate,  than  a  hundred  thousand  in  that  con 
cern." 

And  so  this  further  disentanglement  was  commenced. 

Winter  having  passed  away,  Mr.  Dewey  saw  it  ex 
pedient  to  retire  from  the  Allen  House.  By  this  time 
nothing  more  was  heard  of  his  Italian  Villa.  He  had 
something  else  to  occupy  his  thoughts.  As  there  was 
no  house  to  be  rented  in  S ,  that  in  any  way  cor 
responded  with  his  ideas,  he  stored  his  furniture,  and 
took  board  at  the  new  hotel  which  had  lately  been 
erected. 

Mr.  Wallingford  now  made  preparations  for  remov- 


THE    SETTLEMENT.  291 

ing  to  the  old  mansion,  which  was  still  the  handsomest 
place,  by  all  odds,  in  our  town. 

One  day,  early  in  the  summer,  I  received  a  note 
from  Mr.  Wallingford,  asking  me  to  call  around  at  Ivy 
Cottage  in  the  evening.  At  the  bottom  of  the  note, 
was  a  pencilled  line  from  his  wife  to  Constance,  asking 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  also.  We  went  after  tea. 

"  Come  with  me  to  the  library,  Doctor  !"  said  my 
excellent  friend,  soon  after  our  arrival.  "  I  want  to 
have  a  little  talk  with  you." 

So  we  left  the  ladies  and  retired  to  the  library. 

"My  business  with  you  to-night,"  said  he,  as  we 
seated  ourselves,  facing  each  other,  on  opposite  sides 
of  the  library-table,  "  is  to  get  at  some  adjustment  of 
affairs  between  us,  as  touching  your  executorship  of 
the  Allen  estate.  I  have  asked  two  or  three  times  for 
your  bills  against  the  estate,  but  you  have  always  put 
me  off.  Mr.  Wilkinson,  on  the  contrary,  rendered  an 
account  for  services,  which  has  been  allowed  and  set 
tled." 

"  The  business  required  so  little  attention  on  my 
part,"  I  replied  to  this,  "  that  I  have  never  felt  that  I 
could,  in  conscience,  render  an  account.  And  besides, 
it  was  with  me  so  much  a  labor  of  love,  that  I  do  not 
wish  to  mar  the  pleasure  I  felt  by  overlaying  it  with  a 
compensation." 

"No  man  could  possibly  feel  more  deeply  your 
generous  good  will  toward  me  and  mine — manifested 
from  the  beginning  until  now — than  I  do,  Doctor. 
But  I  cannot  permit  the  obligation  to  rest  all  on  one 
side." 


292  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,    AND   NOW. 

He  pulled  out  a  drawer  of  the  library-table,  as  he 
said  this,  and  taking  therefrom  a  broad  parchment 
document,  laid  it  down,  and  while  his  hand  rested  upon 
it  continued — 

"  Anticipating  that,  as  heretofore,  I  might  not  be 
able  to  get  your  figures,  I  have  taken  the  matter  into 
ray  own  hands,  and  fixed  the  amount  of  compensation 
— subject,  of  course,  to  objections  on  your  part,  if  I 
have  made  the  award  too  low.  These  papers  are  the 
title  deeds  of  Ivy  Cottage,  executed  in  your  favor. 
There  are  memories  and  associations  connected  with 
this  dear  spot,  which  must  for  ever  be  sacred  in  the 
hearts  of  myself  and  wife  ;  and  it  would  be  pain  to  us 
to  see  it  desecrated  by  strangers.  .  In  equity  and  love, 
then,  we  pass  it  over  to  you  and  yours ;  and  may  God 
give  you  as  much  happiness  beneath  its  roof  as  we 
have  known." 

Surprise  kept  me  silent  for  some  time.  But  as  soon 
as  my  thoughts  ran  free,  I  answered — 

"  No — no,  Mr.  Wallingford.  This  is  fixing  the  sum 
entirely  beyond  a  fair  estimate.  I  cannot  for  a  mo 
ment — " 

He  stopped  me  before  I  could  finish  the  sentence. 

"  Doctor !"  He  spoke  with  earnestness  and  deep 
feeling.  "  There  is  no  living  man  to  whom  I  am  so 
heavily  indebted  as  I  am  to  you.  Not  until  after  my 
marriage  was  I  aware  that  your  favorable  word,  given 
without  qualification,  bore  me  into  the  confidence  of 
Mrs.  Montgomery,  and  thus  opened  the  way  for  me  to 
happiness  and  fortune.  My  good  Blanche  has  often 
repeated  to  me  the  Inngunge  you  once  used  in  my 


GOOD   FORTUNE.  293 

favor,  and  which  awakened  in  her  mind  an  interest 
which  gradually  deepened  into  love.  My  heart  moves 
towards  you,  Doctor,  and  you  must  let  its  impulses 
have  way  in  this  small  matter.  Do  not  feel  it  as  an 
obligation.  That  is  all  on  our  side.  We  cannot  let 
Ivy  Cottage  go  entirely  out  of  the  family.  We  wish 
to  have  as  much  property  in  it  as  the  pilgrim  has  in 
Mecca.  We  must  visit  it  sometimes,  and  feel  always 
that  its  chambers  are  the  abodes  of  peace  and  love. 
A  kind  Providence  has  given  us  of  this  world's  goods 
an  abundance.  We  did  not  even  have  to  lift  our 
hands  to  the  ripe  clusters.  They  fell  into  our  laps. 
And  now,  if,  from  our  plenty,  we  take  a  small  portion 
and  discharge  a  debt,  will  you  push  aside  the  oifering, 
and  say,  No  ?  Doctor,  this  must  not  be  !" 

Again  I  essayed  objection  ;  but  all  was  in  vain.  Ivy 
Cottage  was  to  be  our  pleasant  home.  When,  on  re 
turning  with  Constance,  I  related  to  her  what  had 
passed  between  Mr.  Wallingford  and  myself,  she  was 
affected  to  tears. 

"  If  I  have  ever  had  a  covetous  thought,"  she  said, 
"  it  has  been  when  I  looked  at  Ivy  Cottage.  And  to 
think  it  is  to  be  mine !  The  sweetest,  dearest  spot  in 
S !" 

There  was  no  putting  aside  this  good  fortune.  It 
came  in  such  a  shape,  that  we  could  not  refuse  it  with 
out  doing  violence  to  the  feelings  of  true-hearted 
friends.  And  so,  when  they  removed  to  their  jiew 
home,  wre  passed  to  Ivy  Cottage. 

The  two  years  that  followed  were  marked  by  no 
events  of  striking  interest.  The  affairs  of  Judge 


294  TWENTY  YEAKS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

Bigelow  continued  to  assume  a  better  shape,  under  the 
persistent  direction  of  Mr.  Wallingford,  until  every 
dollar  which  he  had  invested  in  the  cotton  mills  was 
withdrawn  and  placed  in  real  estate  or  sound  securi 
ties.  Long  before  this  there  had  come  an  open  rup 
ture  between  the  old  man  and  his  nephew ;  but  the 
Judge  had  seen  his  real  character  in  so  clear  a  light 
that  friendship  was  no  longer  desirable. 


THE   CRISIS.  295 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

AND  now  we  have  come  down  to  the  memorable 
summer  and  fall  of  1857.  No  gathering  clouds,  no 
far-distant,  low-voiced  thunder  gave  warning  of  an  ap 
proaching  storm.  The  sky  was  clear,  and  the  sun  of 
prosperity  moving  onward  in  his  strength,  when,  sud 
denly,  from  the  West  came  a  quick  flash  and  an  ominous 
roll  of  thunder.  Men  paused,  looked  at  each  other, 
and  asked  what  it  meant.  Here  and  there  a  note  of 
warning  was  sounded ;  but,  if  heeded  by  any,  it  came 
too  late.  There  followed  a  brief  pause,  in  which  peo 
ple  held  their  breaths.  Then  came  another  flash,  and 
another  rattling  peal.  Heavy  clouds  began  to  roll  up 
from  the  horizon  ;  and  soon  the  whole  sky  was  dark. 
Pale  face  looked  into  pale  face,  and  tremulous  voices 
asked  as  to  what  was  coming.  Fear  and  consternation 
were  in  all  hearts.  It  was  too  late  for  any  to  seek  refuge 
or  shelter.  Ere  the  startled  multitudes  had  stirred  from 
their  first  surprised  position,  the  tempest  came  down 
in  its  fury,  sweeping,  tornado-like,  from  West  to  East, 
and  then  into  one  grand  gyration  circling  the  whole 
horizon.  Men  lost  courage,  confidence,  and  hope. 
They  stood  still  while  the  storm  beat  down,  and  the 
fearful  work  of  destruction  went  on. 


296  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,   AND   NOW. 

No  commercial  disaster  like  this  had  ever  before 
visited  our  country.  Houses  that  stood  unmoved 
through  many  fierce  convulsions  went  down  like  brittle 
reeds,  and  old  Corporations  which  were  thought  to  be 
as  immovable  as  the  hills  tottered  and  fell,  crushing 
hundreds  amid  their  gigantic  ruins. 

Among  the  first  to  yield  was  the  greatly  extended 
house  of  Floyd,  Lawson,  Lee,  &  Co.  The  news  came 

up  on  the  wires  to  S ,  with  orders  to  stop  the  mills 

and  discharge  all  hands.  This  was  the  bursting  of  the 
tempest  on  our  town.  Mr.  Dewey  had  gone  to  New 
York  on  the  first  sign  of  approaching  trouble,  and  his 
return  was  looked  for  anxiously  by  all  with  whom  he 
was  deeply  interested  in  business.  But  many  days 
passed  and  none  saw  him,  or  heard  from  him.  Failing 
to  receive  any  communication,  Squire  Floyd,  who  had 
everything  involved,  went  down  to  New  York.  I  saw 
Mm  on  the  morning  of  his  return.  He  looked  ten 
years  older. 

It  was  soon  whispered  about  that  the  failure  of  Floyd, 
Lawson,  Lee,  &  Co.  was  a  bad  one.  Then  came  inti 
mations  that  Mr.  Dewey  was  not  in  New  York,  and 
that  his  partners,  when  questioned  about  him,  gave 
Very  unsatisfactory  replies. 

"  Have  you  any  notes  of  the  Clinton  Bank,  Doctor?" 
said  a  friend  whom  I  met  in  the  street.  "  Because,  if 
you  have,  take  my  advice  and  get  rid  of  them  as 
quickly  as  possible.  A  run  has  commenced,  and  it's 
my  opinion  that  the  institution  will  not  stand  for  forty- 
eight  hours." 

It  stood  just  forty-eight  hours  from  the  date  of  this 


CLOSE   OF   THE   CLINTON   BANK.  297 

i 

prophecy,  and  then  closed  its  doors,  leaving  our  neigh 
borhood  poorer  by  the  disaster  over  two  hundred 
thousand  dollars.  There  was  scarcely  a  struggle  in 
dying,  for  the  institution  had  suffered  such  an  exhaust 
ing  depletion  that  when  its  extremity  came  it  passed 
from  existence  without  a  throe.  A  Receiver  was  im 
mediately  appointed,  and  the  assets  examined.  These 
consisted,  mainly,  of  bills  receivable  under  discount, 
not  probably  worth  now  ten  cents  on  the  dollar. 
Three-fourths  of  this  paper  was  drawn  or  endorsed  by 
New  York  firms  or  individuals,  'most  of  whom  had 
already  failed.  The  personal  account  of  Ralph  Dewey 
showed  him  to  be  a  debtor  to  the  Bank  in  the  sum  of 
nearly  a  hundred  thousand  dollars.  The  President, 
Joshua  Kling,  had  not  been  seen  since  the  evening  of 
the  day  on  which  the  doors  of  the  Clinton  Bank  were 
shut,  never  to  be  opened  for  business  again.  His  ac 
counts  were  all  in  confusion.  The  Cashier,  who  had 
succeeded  him  on  his  elevation  to  the  Presidency  of 
the  institution,  was  a  mere  creature  in  his  hands ;  and 
from  his  revelations  it  was  plain  that  robbery  had  been 
progressing  for  some  time  on  a  grand  scale. 

As  soon  as  these  disastrous  facts  became  known  to 

the  heaviest  sufferers  in  S ,  the  proper  affidavits 

were  made  out,  and  requisitions  obtained  for  both 
Dewey  and  Kling,  as  defaulters  and  fugitives  from 
justice.  The  Sheriff  of  our  county,  charged  with  the 
duty  of  arrest,  proceeded  forthwith  to  New  York,  and, 
engaging  the  services  of  detectives  there,  began  the 
search  for  Dewey,  who,  it  was  believed,  had  not  left 
that  city.  He  was  discovered,  in  a  week,  after  having 


298 

dexterously  eluded  pursuit,  on  the  eve  of  departure  for 
England,  disguised,  and  under  an  assumed  name.  His 

next  appearance  in  S was  as  a  prisoner  in  the 

hands  of  our  Sheriff,  who  lodged  him  in  jail.  Very 
heavy  bonds  being  required  for  his  appearance  at 
court,  there  was  not  found  among  us  any  one  willing 
to  take  the  risk,  who  was  qualified  to  become  his 
surety.  And  so  the  wretched  man  was  compelled  to 
lie  in  prison  until  the  day  of  trial. 

Immediately  on  his  incarceration,  he  sent  for  Mr. 
Wallingford,  who  visited  him  without  delay.  He 
found  him  a  shrinking,  cowed,  and  frightened  culprit ; 
not  a  man,  conscious  of  rectitude,  and  therefore  firm 
in  bearing,  though  in  a  false  and  dangerous  position. 

"  This  is  a  bad  business,  Mr.  Wallingford,"  he  said, 
on  meeting  the  lawyer — "  a  very  bad  business ;  and  I 
have  sent  for  you  as  a  professional  gentleman  of 
standing  and  ability,  in  order  to  have  a  consultation 
in  regard  to  my  position — in  fact,  to  place  myself 
wholly  in  your  hands.  I  must  have  the  best  counsel, 
and  therefore  take  the  earliest  opportunity  to  secure 
your  valuable  services.  Will  you  undertake  my 
vcase?" 

"That  will  depend,  Mr.  Dewey,"  was  answered, 
"  entirely  upon  how  it  stands.  If  you  are  falsely  ac 
cused,  and  can  demonstrate  to  me  your  innocence,  I 
will  defend  you  to  the  utmost  of  my  ability,  battling 
your  accusers  to  the  last.  But  if,  on  the  contrary, 
you  cannot  show  clean  hands,  I  am  not  the  one  to  un 
dertake  your  case." 


FRAUD.  299 

Dewcy  looked  at  Mr.  Wallingford  strangely.  He 
scarcely  comprehended  him. 

"I  may  have  committed  mistakes;  all  men  are 
liable  to  error,"  he  replied. 

"Mistake  is  one  thing,  Mr.  Dewey,  and  may  be 
explained;  fraud  is  another  thing,  and  cannot  be 
explained  to  mean  any  thing  else.  What  I  want  you 
to  understand,  distinctly,  is  this :  If  your  connection 
with  the  Clinton  Bank  has  been,  from  the  beginning, 
just  and  honorable,  however  much  it  may  now  seem 
to  be  otherwise,  I  will  undertake  your  case,  and  con 
duct  it,  I  care  not  through  how  great  difficulties,  to  a 
favorable  issue.  But  if  it  has  not  been — and  you 
know  how  it  stands — do  not  commit  your  fate  to  me, 
for  I  will  abandon  you  the  moment  I  discover  that  you 
have  been  guilty  of  deliberate  wrong  to  others." 

The  countenance  of  Mr.  Dewey  fell,  and  he  seemed 
to  shudder  back  into  himself.  For  some  time  he  was 
silent. 

"  If  there  is  a  foregone  conclusion  in  your  mind, 
that  settles  the  matter,"  he  said,  at  length,  in  a  disap 
pointed  tone. 

"  All  I  ask  is  clear  evidence,  Mr.  Dewey.  Fore 
gone  conclusions  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter," 
replied  Mr.  Wallingford,  "  If  you  know  yourself  to  be 
innocent,  you  may  trust  yourself  in  my  hands ;  if  not, 
I  counsel  you  to  look  beyond  me  to  some  other  man." 

"  All  men  are  liable  to  do  wrong,  Mr.  Wallingford ; 
and  religion  teaches  that  the  door  of  repentance  is 
open  to  every  one." 

"  True,  but  the  just  punishment  of  wrong  is  always 


300 

needed  for  a  salutary  repentance.  The  contrition  that 
springs  from  fear  of  consequences,  is  not  genuine  re 
pentance.  If  you  have  done  wrong,  you  must  take 
the  penalty  in  some  shape,  and  I  am  not  the  man 
knowingly  to  stay  the  just  progression  of  either  moral 
or  civil  law." 

"  Will  you  accept  a  retaining  fee,  even  if  not  active 
in  my  case?"  asked  Mr.  Dewey. 
"  No,"  was  the  emphatic  answer. 
A  dark,  despairing  shadow  fell  over  the  miserable 
man's  face,  and  he  turned  himself  away  from  the  only 
being  towards  whom  he  had  looked  with  any  hope  in 
this  great  extremity  of  his  life. 

Mr.  Wallingford  retired  with  pity  in  his  heart.  The 
spectacle  was  one  of  the  most  painful  he  had  ever  wit 
nessed.  How  was  the  mighty  fallen ! — the  proud 
brought  low!  As  he  walked  from  the  prison,  the 
Psalmist's  striking  words  passed  through  his  mind — 
"  I  have  seen  the  wicked  in  great  power,  and  spreading 
himself  like  a  green  bay  tree :  yet  he  passed  away, 
and  lo,  he  was  not." 

When  the  day  of  trial  came,  Mr.  Wallingford  ap 
peared  as  counsel  for  the  creditors  of  the  Clinton 
Bank,  on  the  side  of  the  prosecution.  He  did  not 
show  any  eagerness  to  gain  his  case  against  the  pri 
soner  ;  but  the  facts  were  so  strong,  and  all  the  links 
in  the  chain  of  evidence  so  clear,  that  conviction  was 
inevitable.  A  series  of  frauds  and  robberies  was  ex 
posed,  that  filled  the  community  with  surprise  and  in 
dignation  ;  and  when  the  jury,  after  a  brief  consulta 
tion,  brought  in  a  verdict  of  guilty,  the  expression  of 


RETRIBUTION.  301 

delight  was  general.  Detestation  of  the  man's  crimes 
took  away  all  pity  from  the  eoiiimon  sentiment  in  re 
gard  to  him.  A  sentence  of  five  years'  expiation  in 
the  State  prison  closed  the  career  of  Ralph  Dewey  in 
S ,  and  all  men  said :  "  The  retribution  is  just." 

Squire  Floyd  lost  everything,  and  narrowly  escaped 
the  charge  of  complicity  with  Dewey.  Nothing  but 
the  fact  of  their  known  antagonism  for  some  two  or 
three  years,  turned  the  public  mind  in  his  favor,  and 
enabled  him  to  show  that  what  appeared  collusion,  was 
only,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  fair  business  opera 
tions.  With  the  wreck  of  his  fortune  he  came  very 
near  making  also  a  wreck  of  his  good  name.  Even 

as  it  was,  there  were  some  in  S who  thought 

the  Squire  had,  in  some  things,  gone  far  beyond  the 
rule  of  strict  integrity. 

Judge  Bigelow,  thanks  to  the  timely  and  resolute 
intervention  of  Mr.  Wallingford,  stood  far  away  from 
the  crashing  wrecks,  when  the  storm  swept  down  in 
fearful  devastation.  It  raged  around,  but  did  not 
touch  him;  for  he  was  safely  sheltered,  and  beyond 
its  reach. 


302  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,  AND  NOW. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

Two  years  have  passed  since  these  disastrous 
events ;  and  twenty  years  since  the  opening  of  our 
story.  The  causes  at  work  in  the  beginning,  have 
wrought  out  their  legitimate  effects — the  tree  has  ri 
pened  its  fruits — the  harvest  has  been  gathered.  The 

quiet  of  old  times  has  fallen  upon  S .  It  was  only 

a  week  ago  that  steps  were  taken  to  set  the  long  si 
lent  mills  in  motion.  A  company,  formed  in  Boston, 
has  purchased  the  lower  mill,  and  rented  from  Mr. 
Wallingford  the  upper  one,  which  was  built  on  the 
Allen  estate.  Squire  Floyd,  I  learn,  is  to  be  the 
manager  here  for  the  company.  I  am  glad  of  this. 
Poor  man  !  He  was  stripped  of  everything,  and  has 
been,  for  the  past  two  years,  in  destitute  circumstan 
ces.  How  he  has  contrived  to  live,  is  almost  a  mys 
tery.  The  elegant  house  which  he  had  built  for  him 
self  was  taken  and  sold  by  creditors,  with  the  furniture, 
plate,  and  all  things  pertaining  thereto,  and,  broken- 
spirited,  he  retired  to  a  small  tenement  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  town,  where  he  has  since  lived.  His  unhappy 
daughter,  with  her  two  children,  are  with  him.  Her 
son,  old  enough  to  be  put  to  some  business,  she  has 
placed  in  a  store,  where  he  is  earning  enough  to  pay 


LOST  EOREVER!  303 

his  board ;  while  she  and  her  daughter  take  in  what 
sewing  they  can  obtain,  in  order  to  lessen,  as  far  as 
possible,  the  burden  of  their  maintenance.  Alas  for 
her  that  the  father  of  those  children  should  be  a  con 
victed  felon ! 

I  move  about  through  S ,  on  my  round  of 

duties,  and  daily  there  comes  to  me  som,e  reminder  of 
the  events  and  changes  of  twenty  years.  I  see,  here 
and  there,  a  stranded  wreck,  and  think  how  proudly 
the  vessel  spread  her  white  sails  in  the  wind  a  few 
short  years  gone  by,  freighted  with  golden  hopes.  But 
where  are  those  treasures  now  ?  Lost,  lost  forever  in 
the  fathomless  sea ! 

Twenty  years  ago,  and  now !  As  a  man  soweth, 
even  so  shall  he  reap.  Spring  time  loses  itself  in 
luxuriant  summer,  and  autumn  follows  with  the  sure 
result.  If  the  seed  has  been  good,  the  fruit  will  be 
good ;  but  if  a  man  have  sown  only  tares  in  his  fields, 
he  must  reap  in  sorrow  and  not  in  joy.  There  is  no 
exception  to  the  rule.  A  bramble  bush  can  no  more 
bear  grapes,  than  a  selfish  and  evil  life  can  produce 
happiness.  The  one  is  a  natural,  and  the  other  a 
spiritual,  impossibility. 

A  few  days  ago,  as  I  was  riding  along  on  a  visit  to 
one  of  my  patients,  I  met  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wallingford, 
with  two  of  their  children,  driving  out  in  their  car 
riage.  They  stopped,  and  we  were  passing  a  few 
pleasant  words,  when  there  came  by  two  persons, 
plainly,  almost  coarsely  dressed — a  mother  and  her 
daughter.  Both  had  bundles  in  their  hands.  Over 
the  mother's  face  a  veil  was  drawn,  and  as  she  passed, 


304  TWENTY  YEARS   AGO,    AND   NOW. 

with  evidently  quickening  steps,  she  turned  herself 
partly  away.  The  daughter  looked  at  us  steadily 
from  her  calm  blue  eyes,  in  which  you  saw  a  shade  of 
sadness,  as  though  already  many  hopes  had  failed. 
Her  face  was  pale  and  placid,  but  touched  you  with 
its  expression  of  half-concealed  suffering,  as  if,  young 
as  she  was,  some  lessons  of  pain  and  endurance  had 
already  been  learned. 

"  Who  are  they  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Wallingford. 

"  Delia  Floyd  and  her  daughter,"  said  I. 

No  remark  was  made.  If  my  ears  did  not  deceive 
me,  I  heard  a  faint  sigh  pass  the  lips  of  Mr.  Walling 
ford. 

I  spoke  to  my  horse,  and,  bowing  mutually,  we 
passed  on  our  ways. 

"  Twenty  years  ago,  and  now ! "  said  I  to  myself, 
falling  into  a  sober  mood,  as  thought  went  back  to  the 
sweet,  fragrant  morning  of  Delia's  life,  and  I  saw  it 
in  contrast  with  this  dreary  autumn.  "  If  the  young 
would  only  take  a  lesson  like  this  to  heart ! " 

In  the  evening,  Mr.  Wallingford  called  to  see  me. 

"I  have  not  been  able,  all  day,"  said  he,  "to  get 
the  image  of  that  poor  woman  and  her  daughter  out 
of  my  mind.  What  are  their  circumstances,  Doc 
tor?" 

"They  live  with  Squire  Floyd,"  I  answered,  "and 
he  is  very  poor.  I  think  Delia  and  her  daughter  sup 
port  themselves  by  their  needles." 

"  What  a  fall !  "  he  said,  with  pity  in  his  tones. 

"Yes,  it  was  a  sad  fall — sad,  but  salutary,  I 
trust." 


A   SECOND   DIVORCE.  305 

"How  was  she  after  her  separation  from  Mr. 
Dewey?" 

"  Very  bitter  and  rebellious,  for  a  time.  His  mar 
riage  seemed  to  arouse  every  evil  passion  of  her  nature. 
I  almost  shuddered  to  hear  the  maledictions  she  called 
down  upon  the  head  of  his  wife  one  day,  when  she 
rode  by  in  the  elegant  equipage  of  which  she  had  once 
been  the  proud  owner.  She  fairly  trembled  with  rage. 
Since  then,  the  discipline  of  the  inevitable  in  life  has 
done  its  better  work.  She  has  grown  subdued  and 
patient,  and  is  doing  all  a  mother  in  such  narrow  cir 
cumstances  can  do  for  her  children." 

"What  of  Dewey's  second  wife?"  asked  Mr.  Wal- 
lingford. 

"  She  has  applied  for  a  divorce  from  him,  on  the 
ground  that  he  is  a  convicted  felon ;  and  will  get  a 
decree  in  her  favor,  without  doubt." 

"What  a  history!"  he  exclaimed.  Then,  after  a 
pause,  he  asked — 

"  Cannot  something  be  done  for  Mr.  Floyd?" 

"I  have  understood,"  said  I,  "that  the  company 
about  to  start  the  mills  again  have  engaged  him  as 
manager." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  Just  what  I  was  thinking,"  he  replied, 
with  animation.  "  I  must  look  after  that  matter,  and 
see  that  it  does  not  fall  through." 

And  he  was  in  this,  as  in  all  things,  as  good  as  his 
word.  It  needed  only  a  favorable  intimation  from  him 
to  decide  the  company  to  place  their  works  in  the  hands 
of  Squire  Floyd,  who  was  a  man  of  skill  and  experi- 


306  TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,   AND  NOW. 

ence  in  manufacturing,  and  one  in  whose  integrity  the 
fullest  confidence  might  be  reposed. 

A  month  has  passed ;  and  Squire  Floyd,  engaged 
at  a  salary  of  two  thousand  dollars  a  year,  is  again  at 
the  mills,  busy  in  superintending  repairs,  improve 
ments,  and  additions.  A  few  more  weeks,  and  the 
rattle  of  industry  will  commence,  and  the  old  aspect 

of  things  show  itself  in  S .  May  the  new  mill 

owners  be  wiser  than  their  predecessors ! 

Squire  Floyd  has  removed  from  the  poor  tenement 
lately  the  home  of  his  depressed  family,  and  is  back 
in  the  pleasant  homestead  he  abandoned  years  ago, 
when  pride  and  ambition  impelled  him  to  put  on  a 
grander  exterior.  It  is  understood  that  the  company 
have  bought  the  house,  and  rent  it  to  him  at  a  very 
moderate  price.  My  own  impression  is,  that  Mr.  Wal- 
lingford  has  more  to  do  in  the  matter  than  people  ima 
gine.  I  am  strengthened  in  this  view,  from  the  fact 
of  having  seen  Mrs.  Wallingford  call  at  the  Squire's 
twice  during  the  past  week.  They  are  in  good  hands, 
and  I  see  a  better  future  in  store  for  them. 

And  now,  reader,  you  have  the  story  I  wished  to 
tell.  It  is  full  of  suggestion  to  all  who  are  starting 
forth  upon  life's  perilous  journey.  Let  truth,  honor, 
integrity,  and  humanity,  govern  all  your  actions.  Do 
not  make  haste  to  be  rich,  lest  you  fall  into  divers 
temptations.  Keep  always  close  to  the  right;  and 
always  bear  in  mind  that  no  wrong  is  ever  done  that 
does  not,  sooner  or  later,  return  upon  the  wrong-doer. 

And  above  all,  gentle  maiden,  be  not  dazzled  by  the 
condition  or  prospect  of  any  who  seek  your  hand. 


AUTUMN'S  TREASURES.  307 

Look  away,  down,  deeply  into  the  character,  disposi 
tion,  and  quality ;  and  if  these  are  not  of  good  seem 
ing,  shun  the  proffered  alliance  as  you  would  death. 
Better,  a  thousand  times,  pass  through  life  alone  than 
wed  yourself  to  inevitable  misery.  So  heeding  the 
moralist,  you  will  not,  in  the  harvest  time  which  comes 
to  all,  look  in  despair  over  your  barren  fields,  but  find 
them  golden  with  Autumn's  treasures,  that  shall  fill 
your  granaries  and  crown  your  latter  days  with  bless 
ing. 


THE   END. 


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THE  MASTER  SPIRIT  OF  THE  AGE. 

THE  PUBLIC  AND  PRIVATE  HISTORY  OF  NAPOLEON 
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trated  with  engravings,  from  original  designs.     By  GEORGE  G 
WHITE,      izmo.,  cloth.     Price  $1.00. 

LIFE  AND  TIMES  OF  DANIEL  BOONE. 

Including  an  account  of  the  Early  Settlements  of  Kentucky.  By 
CECIL  B.  HARTLEY.  With  splendid  illustrations,  from  original 
drawings  by  George  G.  White.  I2mo.,  cloth.  Price  $1.00. 

LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  LEWIS  WETZEL. 
Together  with  Biographical  Sketches  of  Simon  Kenton,  Benjamin 
Logan,  Samuel  Brady,  Isaac  Shelby,  and  other  distinguished 
Warriors  and  Hunters  of  the  West.  By  CECIL  B.  HARTLEY. 
With  splendid  illustrations,  from  original  drawings  by  George 
G.  White.  I2mo.,  cloth.  Price  $1.00. 

LIFE  AND  TIMES  OF   GENERAL  FRANCIS   MARION, 

The  Hero  of  the  American  Revolution  ;  giving  full  accounts  of 

his  many  perilous  adventures  and  hair-breadth  escapes  amongst 

the  British  and  Tories  in  the  Southern  States,  during  the  struggle 

for  liberty.    Bv  W.  GILMORE  SIMMS.     I2mo.,  cloth.    $1.00. 


LIST    OF    BOOKS    PUBLISHED   BY    C.    G.    EVANS. 

LIFE  OF  GENERAL  SAMUEL  HOUSTON, 

The  Hunter,  Patriot,  and  Statesman  of  Texas.  With  nine  illus 
trations,  izmo.,  cloth.  Price  $1.00. 

LIVES    OF   GENERAL   HENRY   LEE   AND   GENERAL 
THOMAS    SUMPTER. 

Comprising  a  History  of  the  War  in  the  Southern  Department  of 
the  United  States.  Illustrated,  izmo,  cloth.  $1.00. 

DARING  &  HEROIC  DEEDS  OF  AMERICAN  WOMEN. 

Comprising  Thrilling  Examples  of  Courage,  Fortitude,  Devoted- 
ness,  and  Self-Sacrifice,  among  the  Pioneer  Mothers  of  the 
Western  Country.  By  JOHN  FROST,  LL.D.  Price  $1.00. 

LIVES  OF  FEMALE  MORMONS. 

A  Narrative  of  facts  Stranger  than  Fiction.  By  METTA  VICTORIA 
FULLER,  izmo.,  cloth.  Price  $1.00. 

LIVES  OF  ILLUSTRIOUS  WOMEN  OF  ALL  AGES. 

Containing  the  Empress  Josephine,  Lady  Jane  Gray,  Beatrice 
Cenci,  Joan  of  Arc,  Anne  Boleyn,  Charlotte  Corday,  Zenobia, 
&c.,  &c.  Embellished  with  Fine  Steel  Portraits.  I2mo.,  cloth. 
Price  $1.00. 

THE  LIVES  AND  EXPLOITS  OF  THE  MOST  NOTED 
BUCCANEERS  &  PIRATES  OF  ALL  COUNTRIES. 

Handsomely  illustrated,     i  vol.     Cloth.     Price  $1.00. 

HIGHWAYMEN,   ROBBERS  AND  BANDITTI  OF  ALL 
COUNTRIES. 

With  Colored  and  other  Engravings.  Handsomely  bound  in  one 
volume,  izmo.,  cloth.  Price  $1.00. 

HEROES  AND  PATRIOTS  OF  THE  SOUTH; 

Comprising  Lives  of  General  Francis  Marion,  General  William 
Moultrie,  General  Andrew  Pickens,  and  Governor  John 
Rutledge.  By  CECIL  B.  HARTLEY.  Illustrated,  izmo.,  cloth. 
Price  $1.00. 


LIST   OP   BOOKS    PUBLISHED   BY  G.    G.    EVANS. 


BEAUTY  OF  WOMAN'S  FAITH; 

A  TALE  OF  SOUTHERN  LIFE.     One  volume,  izmo.,  cloth.     Price 
$i  oo. 

"  This  volume  contains  the  story  of  a  French  Emigrant,  who  first  escaped 
to  England,  and  afterward  settled  on  a  plantation  in  Louisiana.  It  is  charm 
ingly  told,  and  the  strength  and  endurance  of  woman's  faith  well  illustrated." 

THE    ORPHAN    BOY; 

OR,  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS  OF  NORTHERN  LIFE.     By  JEREMY  LOUD. 
One  volume,  izmo.,  cloth.    Price  $1.00. 

"This  is  a  work  illustrating  the  passions  and  pleasures,  the  trials  and  tri 
umphs  of  common  life;  it  is  well  written  and  the  interest  is  admirably  sus 
tained." 

THE    ORPHAN    GIRLS; 

A  TALE  OF  LIFE  IN  THE  SOUTH.     By  JAMES  S.  PEACOCK,  M.D., 
of  Mississippi.     One  volume,  I2mo.,  cloth.     Price  $1.00. 

"The  style  is  fluent  and  unforced,  the  description  of  character  well  limned, 
and  the  pictures  of  scenery  forcible  and  felicitous.  There  is  a  natural  con 
veyance  of  incidents  to  the  denouement,  and  the  reader  closes  the  volume  with 
an  increased  regard  for  the  talent  and  spirit  of  the  author." 

NEW    ENGLAND    BOYS; 

OR,  THE  THREE  APPRENTICES.     By  A.  L.  STIMSON.     One  volume, 
.,  Cloth.     Price  $i  oo. 


"  This  is  a  very  agreeable  book,  written  in  a  dashing  independent  style.  The 
incidents  are  numerous  and  striking,  the  characters  life-like,  and  the  plot 
sufficiently  captivating  to  enchain  the  reader's  attention  to  the  end  of  the 
volume." 

THE    KING'S   ADVOCATE; 

OR,  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  A  WITCH  FINDER.     One  volume,  izmo., 
cloth.    Price  $1.00. 

"This  is  a  book  so  thoroughly  excellent,  so  exalted  in  its  character,  so  full 
of  exquisite  pictures  of  society,  and  manifesting  so  much  genius,  skill,  and 
knowledge  of  human  nature,  that  no  one  can  possibly  read  it  without  admit 
ting  it  to  be,  in  every  way,  a  noble  book.  The  story,  too,  is  one  of  stirring 
interest;  and  it  either  sweeps  you  along  with  its  powerful  spell,  or  beguiles 
you  with  its  tenderness,  pathos  and  geniality." 


LIST   OF   BOOKS    PUBLISHED   BY   G.  G.  EVANS. 


LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS  OF  A  PASTOR'S  LIFE. 
By  S.  H.  ELLIOTT.     One  volume,  iimo.,  cloth.     Price  $1.00. 

"  This  is  a  well -written,  highly  instructive  book.  It  is  a  story  of  the  life- 
teachings,  and  life-trials  of  a  good  man,  whose  great  aim  was  to  derate, 
morally  and  intellectually,  his  fellow-men.  Like  many  of  his  nature  and 
temperament  tome  of  hit  views  were  Utopian.  But  his  successes  and 
laftnies,  with  the  causes  of  these,  are  painted  with  a  masterly  hand.  There 
is  unusual  strength  and  vitality  in  this  volume." 

THREE  PER   CENT.  A  MONTH; 

OR,  THE   PERILS  OF  FAST  LIVING,     A  Warning  to  Young  Men. 
By  CHAS.  BURDETT.    One  volume,  I2mo.,  cloth.    Price  $1.00. 

"The  stylo  of  this  book  is  direct  and  effective,  particularly  fitting  the 
impression  which  such  a  story  should  make.  It  is  a  very  spirited  and  in- 
•t»otiT«  tal^  leaving  a  good  impwssion  both  npon  the  wader's  sensibilities 
and  morals." 

EVENINGS  AT  HOME; 

OR,  TALES   FOR  THE  FIRESIDE.     By  JANI   C,  CAMPBELL.     One 
volume,  I2mo.,  cloth.    Price  $1.00. 

•We  know  of  no  book  in  the  whole  range  of  modern  fictitious  literature 
we  womld  sooner  select  for  a  delightful  and  instructive  coane*ie».» 

RURAL  LIFE; 

OR,  PROSE  AND  POETRY  OF  THE  WOODS  AND  FIELDS.     By  HARRY 
PENCILLER.     One  volume,  cloth,  iimo.     Price  $1.00. 


"Beantifkl 


.^  --      _  ,  _  ,    .»•••••..  •MJ    »•••  mmm 

w«ed*  and  vatea.  of  the  beantiea  of  verdant  fields  and  fragrant 
tkftiHite  ef  1Mb  and  r*.»imgh»ek*  aft  tesjifa    in  i 

,  which  cannot  fail  to 


JOYS  AND  SORROWS  OF  HOME; 

An   AUTOBIOGRAPHY.     By  AKKA  LELAND.     One  volume,  1 2mo., 
cloth.     Price  9i.oo. 

is  one  of  the  rat  beamtifkl  iosnsHis  etories  we  have  ever  read, 
let.tMtHft.witn  a  aatollew  and  enanesn  which  leads  tne  leader 
on  to  the  dene,  and  «ntA  leave*  a  regret  that  tite  tale  is  done.- 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


RENEWED  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  IMMEDIATE 
RECALL 


LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

BookSlip-50m-9,'70(N9877s8)458 — A-31/5,6 


N9  785289 

PS1039 
Arthur,  T.S. 

Twenty  years  ago,  and   T8 
now. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


